More Than Words
by feministly
Summary: Of all the pages he'd ever penned, of all the words he'd ever written, these anonymous letters to an ink and paper woman—all shadow and mystery and fragile allure—might prove more extraordinary than anything that came before. AU
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Strangers**

 _ **Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.**_

* * *

Richard Edgar Castle stared at a row of weathered mystery books in the murky light of the used bookstore, breathing in the familiar scent of yellowed pages and flaking paperbacks. It was strange seeing his own work for resale, and more than a little unsettling-okay, disappointing-knowing that someone had read through something he created, had immersed themselves in a world, in characters that were practically pieces of his soul, so deeply he had invested himself, and then perfunctorily exchanged them for a couple dollars at most in recompensation.

He huffed a little, half amused half depressed at seeing his blood and tears sitting on pressed wood shelves, sale stickers slapped on their spines. But then, he didn't do it for the money or accolades, writing. Not really. His success was a fringe benefit that had first shocked and then fortified him, but ultimately he wrote because he needed to write. He couldn't not write. Stories crafted themselves in his head and haunted him, the words and sentences that belonged in unwritten narratives distracting him to the point of sleeplessness. Until he put pen to paper, or fingers to keys. Whatever.

Regardless of the mode or method, he considered writing to be the ultimate medium of expression. And in his case, of sanity. Without writing he wasn't sure where he would be. Talking to himself, potentially. Or worse still, to the voices and characters in his head.

That people could so easily discard his stories was...unexpectedly painful. There was so much of him, of his innermost thoughts, in each story, and the tone and characters and plot often reflected, at least in part, the struggles and triumphs he experienced in the midst of his writing. How could he not take it personally?

To be honest, he had never really considered this aspect of the reading process. The true denouement. Was it routine for people to give away the books they finished? He couldn't remember the last book he gave away. It was probably a gummy, crayoned children's book or an overlooked harlequin he'd forgotten to pack with the rest of Meredith's myriad belongings. But his books? He kept those. They were...road maps to him. He remembered where he read each and every one, the feelings and emotions certain passages evoked or intensified, and how he carried the presence of each novel with him for varying amounts of time-some books weighed on his mind even now, so much had they shaped his thoughts, his character, who he was as a man. Revisiting his favorite novels, he could make out faded drops of black coffee on the pages, reminding him of the nights he spent reading for pleasure as a college student when he should have been studying; or his hastily scrawled notes in the margins, pointing out literary techniques or verbiage he found "fascinating" or "enthralling". Yeah, he was...really a nerd.

Pushing his musings aside, he focused on one book in particular, his brow knitting in concentration. Interesting. It stuck out to him for all the best reasons. It was _A Rose for Everafter_ , which was, of all his work to date, one of his personal favorites. Top three, at least. And the spine was well-worn in the extreme, the ink smudged in some areas, the text rubbed to fading, the edges of the dust jacket slightly frayed. Clearly loved, but not so damaged as to be abused. Someone who loved literature, who had read and reread it often, owned and then relinquished his book. Confusing. And as a crafter of mysteries, it was impossible for Rick to ignore this book and the questions it raised. The potential stories it presented as explanation.

He plucked it from the shelf, dislodging a puff of dust, and cradled the familiar weight in his hands for just a moment before flipping open the front cover.

An inscription greeted him and his breath caught as he read the message, feeling almost guilty, slightly voyeuristic. These...these words weren't for him, but they _were_ keeping his words company, so...that had to mean something, right? Chalk it up to fate or kismet? Serendipity? Assuaging his hesitancy with that rationalization, he focused on the tight, even cursive, and began to read.

 _My darling girl,_

 _This summer, I witnessed your desire for justice and love of literature intersect when you devoured every one of Rick Castle's mysteries. I hope that you enjoy his latest installment, and that it provides a respite from your own tireless pursuit of truth, if only for a moment!_

 _We are so proud of you and love you more than words can say!_

 _Happy 18th Birthday!_

 _Mom & Dad_

A sticky hand gripped his forearm, jerking him from nostalgia that, by all rights, belonged to someone else. He blinked rapidly, clearing his thoughts, and peered into sleepy blue eyes.

"I'm done, daddy," Alexis murmured, back from the bathroom.

"Did you wash your hands?" His lips curved up at her drowsy little nod and fuzzed hair and she smiled back at him, though it was a little lackluster and his heart clenched at the sadness she so clearly didn't want him to notice. Always protecting him.

In another astonishing display of parental negligence, Meredith had reneged on a long-ago-promised, mother-daughter vacation to California, featuring a trip to Disney Land, the Golden Gate Bridge, and bewhiskered sea lions. Some indie flick cast her in a main role at the eleventh hour, and they were shooting in Chicago for three weeks, which delighted Meredith to no end, while thoroughly derailing her plans with Alexis all in one fell swoop.

Meredith had called him yesterday, chirping excitedly about the potential impact this would have on her career, informing him that she could spend time with Alexis next month, saying she knew they would understand why she had to reschedule. All selfishness and superficiality and hollow justifications. Sending him into a white-knuckled rage that had him, quite literally, biting his tongue to refrain from launching into a blistering verbal attack. Instead, he leashed his temper, coolly hung up on Meredith mid-ramble, and told Alexis that they were going to the Hamptons tomorrow. Oh, he aimed for excitement and nonchalance, but Alexis was too perceptive for her own good. She knew as soon as he knocked on her bedroom door that Meredith had backed out-saw through the false cheer in his eyes or the too-tight smile-and he had watched her wilt under the knowledge, watched her chin tremble and her eyes go glossy before she turned toward her window to hide her response.

God, she was only 8-years-old. That she had to deal with rejection from the very person who should have loved her most...it was kind of killing him. And he didn't know how to fix it for her. Meredith was going to do what Meredith wanted to do, consequences, repercussions, and collateral human damage be damned. All he could do was pick up the pieces and minimize the emotional devestation as much as possible.

Fighting back a resurgance of bitter anger, he smoothed a hand over her bright hair. "Do you have enough reading material, Speedy Gonzalez?" She was like him that way, devouring books, always requiring more reading material. And he loved that.

"Yeah, I have Call of the Wild and a collection of Grimm's Fairy Tales and some Boxcar Children books, so I'll be good."

"You sure? I figured we would stay for a week or so-longer if you want, even. With your track record, having a couple of extra books to tide you over might be good."

 _Damn._ Not even the promise of new books seemed to perk her up. Meredith had managed to snuff out that effervescence that was such a defining aspect of Alexis' personality, and he really and truly hated her for that. She would get it back, he knew. Alexis was resilient, and she would recover. Eventually. But seeing his baby like this...watching her suffer? It was hell.

Alexis shrugged and ambled over to the children's section to peruse her options, and he turned back to the book he still held in his hands. His book, to be precise. Containing a personal message that was...exactly that. Personal. Very personal. Why, he wondered, would the owner give it away? Presumably, it was given to the previous owner- _Darling Girl_ , clearly a female owner he deduced-by their mother. With whom it seemed they shared a close relationship, if the endearment was to be considered. So why abandon a memento like this? He turned the question this way and that in his head, but no explicable reason came to mind. _Curiouser and curiouser..._

He flipped to the title page and sucked in a little gasp that startled Alexis. He smiled to reassure her and then hurriedly bent his head over the pages again, because now he had a name! Or a fragment of one, really.

 **Property of K. Beckett, Stanford University.**

Wow. _Darling Girl_ was also brilliant. Ivy League brilliant, for all intents and purposes, despite Stanford's exclusion from the Ivies. And having the pick of the nearly 4 million volumes contained in the Cecil H. Green Library, she still elected to read his novels. He felt thoroughly complimented by the mysterious K. Beckett, despite the fact that her copy of his book now graced the shelves of the very quaint, poorly lit, impossibly dusty _Second Time Around_ book store.

He started leafing through the pages and paused about halfway into the first chapter, stunned. She had freaking annotated his book, he marveled, drinking in the neat words scrawled in the margins.

 _"RC writes emotion by showing not telling."_

 _"Visceral; near palpable emotion from Sister Mary Grace."_

 _"Character's flaws make her accessible/relatable."_

A plethora of other similar phrases littered the pages, the blue ink of her words blurring as he flipped through the pages rapidly. Maybe close to a hundred comments, give or take.

Just...wow. He was floored. Kind of overwhelmed that someone had taken the time to dissect and analyze his work when there were countless volumes worthier than his available for study. Most women he encountered at his readings had done nothing more than skim the synopsis on the book flap, despite their claims to rabid fandom. And like a good author, he pasted on his best charm smile and signed his name on the cover of books he doubted those women with their chiclet smiles and fake tans would ever read. But here was a woman who had not only read his book, but examined it in detail. And he found that...really sexy.

 _K. Beckett, who are you and where are you?_

Snapping the book shut, he looked up to see Alexis balancing a stack of books in her slender arms, giving him a sheepish smile as she walked toward the register. He followed her and placed "A Rose for Everafter" next to Alexis' selections.

"I hate to say I told you so..." he sighed in mock exasperation, eyeing her books meaningfully, and hid his relief when Alexis shot him a familiar chiding look.

"Not as much as I hate to hear it! And if you want someone to build sand castles with you this week, you better not act smug! Like having a kid who reads is a bad thing..." She trailed off incredulously with a snort.

"Duly noted," he replied, repressing a smile and nodding sagely. Alexis frowned as the teenaged cashier started lazily ringing up the books and turned to regard him with something like bemusement.

"Dad, why are you buying a copy of your own book?" Peripherally, he saw the teen startle at her words and gave a mental groan, because the very last thing Rick felt like doing was doling out autographs and giving this unmotivated teen an inspirational pep talk about realizing those adolescent aspirations to become a great writer. He just didn't have it in him today.

"I'll explain when we're back in the car," he hedged, wanting to get out of there before the teen's burgeoning awe and excitement led to an unavoidable conversation. "But," he continued, "I think I may have found an unexpected friend."

* * *

It took them another half hour to reach the beach house, and to his relief, Rick intercepted the grocery delivery service as he carried in their minimal luggage. Another 10 minutes on the road, and they would have missed out on the artisan cheeses and fresh cookies he had been banking on to further lift Alexis' spirits. Despite a rough start to their week, it was looking more and more promising, like this trip might be an actual success and not just a mediocre consolation. He pressed money into the delivery boy's hand and set about putting groceries away and transferring bags to the appropriate rooms.

Alexis was a flurry of movement, dashing up the stairs to don her swimsuit, down again to fetch the sunscreen, a blur of enthusiasm and singlemindedness that left no room for sadness. He looked on as he set about preparing homemade macaroni and cheese, pleased that she was no longer quite so despondent, but he also knew that her melancholy would return in the evening when she slowed down again. He only hoped the fun and inevitable exhaustion of the day would blunt it a little.

She chattered away while meticulously applying some stratospherically high SPF he had purchased per the suggestion of his dermatologist (melanoma was not a joke), talking about one of her friends from school, about the premise of one of the books she had purchased today, about their neighbor's dog, and then she stopped abruptly and scrunched up her features in an adorably quizzical expression.

"So wait...why did-why did you buy that book today?"

"My book?" He clarified, continuing at her affirmative nod. "Well...I-that is-someone wrote in it. And..." how did he explain his motives when he wasn't even entirely sure what had driven him to purchase the book in the first place? "Okay, so you know how your teachers will make comments on your book reports when you turn them in? And then you can use the things they say to improve your writing, to learn more about yourself? It's the same concept. Just applied to a novel. Whoever owned the book took the time out of their busy life to read my words, and then they took additional time to add in their own thoughts and suggestions and marked passages or words that they liked. And this person? She was a true book lover. And do you know how I can tell? She didn't write down these notes anticipating that someone would read her words one day," because, jokes and digs about his massive ego aside, he knew his books weren't college course or literary classic material, they were for entertainment. "She did it for the sake of putting her thoughts on paper. I'm pretty sure that was her only reason-just recording her thoughts. And I find...I find I quite admire that."

"Well, yeah..." Alexis arched a coppery eyebrow, smirking, "you admire it because that's exactly like you, dad. Of course you admire it. Her. Whatever. You're always saying you have too many words in your head, that they have to come out. That's...that's probably why she wrote in your book. She has words, too. But she's probably not an author, so her words and her stories don't have anywhere to go. Not like yours."

His kid. God. He swallowed hard, trying to relieve the ache in his throat. Just...it was more than a little humbling and awing that she was so well-adjusted, all things considered. Brilliant and articulate, solemnly dispensing advice while covered in fondant-thick sheets of zinc oxide. His perfect, brainy, albino kid.

"How in the world are you so smart?" He smiled tenderly, and she shrugged, a blush throwing her freckles into relief as she basked in the glow of his compliment.

"Someone has to be the grownup," she teased, rosy cheeks lifting in a grin, and the sweet moment dissipated as he pressed a palm to his chest and adopted a beleaguered expression.

"Fie, Daughter! Thou hast mortally wounded me, cut me to the quick! Oh, Alexis, thou hast-"

"Good grief! You really are your mother's son," she muttered through a grin, rolling her eyes at his theatrics and then making a hasty exit to the patio before he could get in a rejoinder, presumably headed for the pool.

He quickly sobered as he resumed dicing cheese, thoughts of the enigmatic K. Beckett running through his head. Alexis was right, it was the words that drew him in. Being a student at Stanford, she was unarguably intelligent. But it was more than that. Just the few comments he had read revealed her to have emotional depth and refreshing insight, especially regarding human behavior. He hadn't gotten the chance, but he wanted to see if she'd annotated any of the book's raunchier scenes. That...that could be interesting. Did they share a similar sense of humor, he wondered? Was she still in school, or had she since graduated? The niggling need to know had taken up residence in his brain, and he knew it was going to plague him until he unearthed some answers. The lure of a fresh mystery excited him, ratcheted up his heart rate, and honestly, he wanted to abandon the macaron in pursuit of that mystery, but he didn't dare risk disappointing Alexis. Not today. Or this week.

Month.

Year.

He felt like he was constantly compensating for Meredith's failures. Casting a mournful glance at K. Beckett's book on the kitchen table, he heaved a sigh and returned to dicing, making mental plans and potential contingencies. Because he was going to find K. Beckett. Come hell or high water or a hail of bullets-oh, that was good...he was proud of himself for that literary allusion-he was going to track her down and unearth the story behind the inscription and her lovely commentary and her abandoned book. And by doing so, maybe he could unravel a real life mystery.

 _K. Beckett..._

* * *

 **AN:**

 **I recently had the pleasure of reading through a Grey's Anatomy fic entitled "Fates Collide", authored by OddCoupler222, and thought it would be fun to apply the same plot premise in the Castle-verse.**

 _ **Next up, Castle reaches out to the mysterious K. Beckett...**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Salutations**

 _ **Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.**_

* * *

He sped through the remainder of the meal preparations, struggling to focus on measurements and proper ingredient selection as his thoughts continued to gravitate to K. Beckett. After putting the pasta on to boil, he added butter, whole milk, all purpose flour, and a couple generous scoops of dried mustard to a saucepan and mindlessly whisked the concoction until it thickened into a creamy roux. In went a raw egg and handfuls of pungent cheeses, more whisking, more speculation about K. Beckett. _Pursuit of truth_ , the inscription had read. So...a law student? Criminal Justice? Medicine? It seemed likelier that a future attorney or law enforcement officer would so meticulously annotate a mystery novel, and he doubted if anyone in a rigorous pre-med program such as Stanford's would allow themselves the self-indulgence of reading for pleasure. Much less take the time to take notes on his writing style.

So, law or CJ were his frontrunners. But...even so. As he added finely milled black pepper to the cheese sauce, he puzzled over why a Stanford student in either discipline would so thoroughly scour _A Rose for Everafter,_ because despite being entertainingly campy-murdered virgins and investigative nuns severely stretched the boundaries of reality—Shakespeare it was not. What could K. Beckett have possibly hoped to gain from her study? It just...intrigued him. She intrigued him. In a way little did at this point in his life.

God, that sounded melodramatic.

It's just...well, historically he was known for childlike displays of enthusiasm and had always taken inordinate joy in the little things. Reveled in silliness and the possibility of magic. Marveled at the night sky, dreamed of traveling and thrilling adventures and finding love. Lately however, he felt blunted, as though colors had faded ever so slightly. As though he was doing nothing more than mechanically going through the motions. The night sky, the constellations, had always held a fascination for him, but he couldn't remember the last time he had star gazed for the sheer joy of doing so. And he hated that. He couldn't pinpoint when or why the shift had occurred, but it had. So he was chalking up his apathy to sheer exhaustion, and maybe that's truly where it originated. Juggling the responsibilities of full time fatherhood and a burgeoning literary career was leeching all of the energy from him, and with every superficial promotional party filled with superficial socialites, he felt himself grow just a little more jaded. A little more monochrome.

Seeing that his work—no matter how far-fetched or macabre—was meaningful to someone, that it had taken emotional purchase in their life, moved him. And yeah, it inspired him. Much like Orion's Belt in the not so distant past. K. Beckett was a breath of fresh air he hadn't realized he needed, and he wanted to know more. Like, why a book containing so many hours of analysis and scripted thoughts had ended up in a used bookstore? And why his work was subjected to scrutiny, as opposed to Patterson or Connelly's?

Heaving a sigh, he shelved his thoughts for later and worked quickly to finish his world famous—Alexis insisted it was unparalleled—Macaroni _du jour_.

Some time later, he slid the gruyere-topped casserole dish into the searing heat of his double-wide oven and felt a smile break over his face unbidden. Because now it began. Mission _"Find K. Beckett"_ was underway.

He popped outside to check on Alexis, hastily prepared a much needed cappuccino, and then settled at the kitchen table with his laptop and phone. Where did he even start? Was there a student directory he could access? And even if one was available for public perusal, he doubted if it would contain any personal information beyond names. Barring a directory, he had few options. The university was unlikely to willingly disclose the intimate details of their students lives, even if he could provide a justification for the release of information. Privacy policies were such a nuisance.

Sighing, he drew a hand across his face and pressed his fingertips against the bridge of his nose. _Think, Rick_. Who would have access to student records?  
His eyes fluttered open on a little smile as he realized...the registrar's office. It was possible—although highly unlikely—that a staff member would help him, but it would require a perfect storm of circumstances to glean any helpful information. Prior to today and the bookshop and the discovery of K. Beckett, the concept of serendipity and fate had taken on a hackneyed and illusory shape for him. But now...well, he trusted the universe to work this one out, to figuratively pave his way. Talking to K. Beckett, contacting her...it had grown from an impulse to a necessity, an obsession. He needed, inexplicably, to know her, and he was choosing to trust that compulsion, to yield to it.

It wasn't difficult to locate the contact information on Stanford's website, and after a nervous preparatory breath, he punched in the listed number with stiff fingers. A canned voice instructed him to wait on the line, and after a few moments spent listening to nondescript jazz, a click issued in his ear followed by a warm alto voice.

"Good Afternoon, you've reached the registrar's office at Stanford University. This is Sherri Traeger speaking, how may I help you?"

Praise all the saints, he got a woman.

"Hi, Sherri," he began, projecting a calm steadiness he was far from feeling, "I'm actually calling in regards to...well, that is..." How did he even begin to explain his predicament to this poor woman? "I have what I'm fairly certain is a bizarre request for you. I'm really—I'm not sure how else to say it."

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence on Sherri's end before she replied with a succinct and rather wary, "Continue."

"My name is Rick Castle," he hurried to explain, and was gratified to hear Sherri's indrawn gasp of surprise. He stifled a triumphant grin as she sputtered out, "Rick—Rick Castle? Not—as in Richard Castle? As in...the—the mystery novelist?"

"Oh, well...yes, actually," he admitted, infusing his response with a blend of sheepishness and surprise he knew would endear him to the older woman.

There was something about phone conversations with persons unknown that Rick relished. Strange as it sounded, he really enjoyed the anonymity of phone calls, the faceless exchanges providing fodder for his hungry imagination. A few words, a name, the timbre of their voice, and he could construct a fictionalized portrayal of his dialogue partner.

 _Sherri_ —her voice was warm, and she was warm. African-American with dark, burnished skin, full lips and a slow smile that belied her fierce intellect. She'd had rough beginnings, but climbed her way out academically, rung by rung. Attended college and flourished. Excelled at her job. Was the sort of woman who felt out of place in anything other than Ann Taylor pencil skirts and cardigans. Prided herself on her near-obsessive organization, but rationalized that without such extreme measures, the office would fall to pieces. Despite being a perpetual worrier, she hid it well, always maintaining a preternatural level of calm collectedness that soothed agitated parents and anal-retentive honors students.

Yeah, it was weird, he knew. But for him, crafting a backstory—regardless of authenticity—was key in drawing people out, in connecting with them, understanding them. It was part of his trademark charm. People felt truly _known_ by him. And more often than not, his wild speculations in regards to personal history were largely accurate. A quirk, and nothing more. But useful all the same.

"Of course, I should have recognized you from your voice—I saw you on Letterman a couple of months ago. And I love your novels," Sherri continued, voice a little breathy, "I've been a fan since _In a Hail of Bullets_ was released."

"Thank you for telling me," he said, now feeling genuinely sheepish for leveraging his identity and manipulating what was so obviously a sweetheart of a woman. "It's—well, it's so kind of you to say so."

Sherri laughed nervously in response, and he forged ahead with his explanation.

"The reason I'm calling is...I'm calling because I want to believe in serendipity again. In fate," it was an unforgivably sappy statement, but it would appeal to Sherri, he thought. And from her little wistful sigh, he felt his assumptions were vindicated.

"This morning, I stopped at a used bookstore and found a copy of one of my novels that's currently out-of-print. As I flipped through the pages, I found something rather fascinating notes in the margins, written by...well, I'm assuming by a young woman. An insightful young woman who happens to attend Stanford, as a matter of fact. And I'm feeling..." he trailed off a bit, frowning at the tabletop as he searched for a way to articulate his thoughts.

"I'm feeling revived. Which I know sounds hyperbolic and silly because I don't even know this girl, but if you could read the way she writes, you would understand why I have to find her and at the very least offer her the return of the book. I...the life of a writer sounds glamorous—or so I've been told—but at its foundation, it's a series of literary deadlines and financial wagers and long nights and parties with terrible finger foods and even worse people. All of them hollow and monetarily motivated. Finding her comments was-was something-something I didn't even know that I needed. To feel—to feel understood by someone who has never met me, to feel appreciated for my work and nothing else, it-it signifies a great deal. To me, it means that, as a writer, I'm achieving what I set out to do—infusing my work with pieces of myself. For this girl to recognize my intentions, to see _me_ between the lines and not just a series of two-dimensional characters...I just—I have to meet this girl, Sherri..." he trailed off, a little surprised at how tightly he clutched his phone, at how his breath sounds and heart rate had picked up. And at his own vehemency.

There was a beat of silence on the other line, then a pensive hum from Sherri before she replied, "Well then, we'd better find her, Mr. Castle!" He shot out of his chair, shocked and elated, because honestly, he'd harbored major doubts about actually making it this far.

"Are you—you're serious? You'll help me?"

"Honey," she crooned, "this is a meet-cute for the ages. Destiny choreographed with a poignancy to rival Swan Lake! Of course I'm going to help you!"

He laughed at that, relieved and amused and a little touched that she even cared, "I can't—I just-saying 'thank you' seems so paltry, but... _thank you_. Really."

"Happy to help. Now, what was that name again?"

He told her and listened between the noisy thud of his pulse to her fingers clicking against keys. Searching for K. Beckett. "Okay, so it looks like we have three possible female K. Becketts enrolled at present, two K. Becketts who graduated from Stanford within the last two years, and two K. Becketts who have since matriculated to other universities. That leaves you with seven prospective woman, which certainly narrows it down. But...here's the only catch. To give you their personal contact information would be an egregious breach of protocol and privacy on the part of our university. I can't tell you anything beyond this," she informed him, and he felt his stomach tighten, disappointment settling on him like a wet blanket.

"However," she qualified, and just like that, he felt his hopefulness renew itself, felt a smile widening his mouth because everything was so perfectly falling in place. Like it was fate. It had to be. "If you send me seven copies of a letter, I can forward the information to each girl. Even those who are no longer at the university left us forwarding addresses in the event we needed to contact them. So...does that sound feasible to you, Mr. Castle?"

"Sherri, I could kiss you," he declared, grinning, and was rewarded with more sputtering and nervous laughter.

"You're an unforgivable flirt, Mr. Castle," she managed to reply, "and I...I'm just glad I could help you out. And be a part of..whatever this is. Kismet. Destiny. What have you."

"Me too," he told her warmly. "I'll send those letters to you posthaste, pun intended, and—and I could keep you updated as I learn more if you'd like. Let you know if or when I find her..."

"When you find her," she emphasized, "I would love to know. Expedite those letters and let's get this ball rolling!"

* * *

He selected a sheet of creamy vellum stationary, no letterhead or watermark save for a small embossed _fleur de lis._ A black fountain pen, another cappuccino, and then he was writing, and the words poured out of him smooth and strong and bright as always.

 **K. Beckett,**

 **It's my fervent hope that this missive finds you well, and that you're not thoroughly creeped out that a complete stranger is contacting you. A connection of mine at Stanford was kind enough to forward my letter, so rest assured that your identity, location, and all other intimate details remain in obscurity.**

 **I'm writing you because, unintentionally, you managed to captivate me. Via the written word. Quite by accident, I stumbled upon a Rick Castle mystery, _A Rose for Everafter_ , with a slew of annotations in the margins that formerly belonged to a K. Beckett at Stanford University. As I read through what I can only assume to be your notes, I was struck by the depth of your perception and the vibrancy of your thoughts. I hope it's not too forward to mention that I like your mind. It sounds top notch.**

 **But more than that, I can't help but believe you didn't willingly relinquish this book. Not with such a meaningful, personal message inscribed in the cover, and not after all the time you spent making notes and analyzing the text. If it was indeed mistakenly relegated to the shelves of a secondhand shop, I would like to restore it to you! Books are roadmaps in life, reminders of where we've been and the trajectory in which we are headed, and to lose one so important as this could prove to be disastrous.**  
 **If you are eager for its return, simply include an address** — **yours or a friend's or a PO box** — **and I'll be happy to send it your way.**

 **I have to ask-because my curiosity is insatiable** — **about the "pursuit of truth" your parents referred to in the personal note. Are you a law student? A CJ major? Those seemed to be the most plausible career options for such an avid fan of mystery novels. And if so, why is Rick Castle your author of choice was opposed to one of the many other talented crime novelists? Patterson, Connelly, and Cannell come to mind.**

 **Also, if you don't mind the inquiry, what is your name?**

 **Call me a fool if you will, but it strikes me as serendipitous that of all the bookstores in all the cities in all the world I walked into that one and happened to find your novel. I refuse to laugh in the face of fate, and so I'm taking a leap of faith and reaching out. I hope this letter finds the K. Beckett in question, and that I hear back from you soon!**

 **All the best,**

 **R. Rodgers**

He didn't know what possessed him to conceal his public identity, but it felt right. To address himself as Rick Rodgers—father, son, average man—as opposed to Rick Castle—writer extraordinaire and reputed playboy. So he just went with it, continued trusting his instincts. They hadn't led him astray yet, not in this venture. He scrawled out six more copies, sealed them in envelopes bearing only the appellation _K. Beckett_ , and bundled them in a large manilla package addressed to Sherri Traeger at the registrar's office.

Bless that woman.

Feeling guilty for disrupting her fun, he bundled a dripping Alexis into a faded beach towel and drove them to the post office, managing to make it in just before closing, and then rushed back to the house to save their macaroni from the oven.

He knew he had been conspicuously absent for much of the day, and spent the remainder of the evening doting on Alexis, practically smothering her with affection. They devoured bowls of rich macaroni for dinner and enjoyed a dessert of soft snickerdoodles and glasses of milk on the patio, watching the brilliant sunset fade into a velvet black sky studded with stars. Which really was astonishing, he decided. Yeah, he was awestruck. Starstruck, rather. With Alexis curled against his side on the porch swing, he pointed out constellations and notable stars—Cygnus, Lyra, Vega, Delphinus and Sagitta, and the ever-popular dippers, both big and small. Inspired by the names and stories contained in the night sky, he asked Alexis to fetch the anthology of Greek myths she had picked up at the bookstore. In a low, soft voice, with the crash of waves in the distance, he read aloud of Perseus and Andromeda, of Hercules and Poseidon, and felt when, lulled by the sound of his voice, Alexis gave in to fatigue.

He remained that way for a good hour, staring out at the water, at the way the moon gilded the waves and seemed to illuminate the sand from within, content to simply hold his daughter and revel in the anticipation of all the future might hold.

The rest of the week passed with a startling speed that seemed unique to summer, their days spent constructing sand castles and card houses, reading together and building blanket forts, and slowly but surely repairing the hurt Meredith had so blithely inflicted. Alexis departed a different child than the one that arrived a week ago. She still looked tired, but it was the pleasant, heavy-limbed exhaustion of days spent in the sun and late nights roasting marshmallows as opposed to the sleep-deprived fatigue born of rejection and insecurity. Which...god, he was so thankful she'd improved.

Meredith's selfishness had always impacted Alexis. It was no secret that Meredith...chose Meredith. Consistently. She predictably put herself, her desires first, and always provided a sound defense for her actions. But the magnitude of this choice, the depth of the hurt inflicted on Alexis, was greater this time around. And he knew, happy as she was now, it had left a scar.

He couldn't believe she was his. The sun had streaked her russet hair with ribbons of gold and scattered freckles across her nose. Watching her peaceful expression in the rear view mirror, his heart grew a little lighter as they headed back to the city, lifting and lightening further as he basked in her happy chatter and sweet laughter. He teased her affectionately, called her "pumpkin", and she smiled at him in the mirror so brightly he felt certain his heart would float, balloon-like, right out of his chest.

* * *

Another week sped by, spent with Alexis at museums and parks, arranging play dates that allowed him time to write, doing laundry and packing suitcases for Alexis' trip with Martha to Boston. Thoughts of K. Beckett resurfaced at odd times, catching him off-guard-when he was scrubbing dishes after dinner, a paragraph into the newest Derek Storm chapter, and every single time he unlocked his damn mailbox only to find bills and credit card offers. Just...thoughts of her.

Would she or wouldn't she respond.

Waiting for a theoretical letter was surprisingly agonizing. He hadn't expected this level of anticipation or distraction. Hell, he hadn't expected to care quite so deeply about someone ignorant to his existence, someone he'd never even met. But he did.

Saturday morning, the day of Alexis' departure to the Walking City, ushered in a thick cover of charcoal clouds and steady rain, which meant the drive to his mother's Upper East Side studio was going to be a nightmare. Alexis munched on a strawberry poptart and looked on with bleary eyes as he double- and triple-checked her suitcase and backpack for the necessities—toothbrush, underwear, her favorite sweater, and of course, Monkey Bunkey—before loading up the car. They managed to make it there in one piece, albeit thirty minutes later than intended, and he unhurriedly transferred Alexis' luggage to the waiting cab, without regard to the torrential rain. He was going to be soaked, he chose not to fight it.

After handing Alexis into the cab, he gingerly gave her a parting kiss on the forehead through the window, trying not to drip water on her face but failing if her scrunched expression was any indication of success. Martha promised to call him in the evening, and then they were pulling away from the curb, and he was heading home, a soggy mess, already missing his girl.

An empty loft meant near total silence, which he generally loathed, but had come to appreciate when it came to hammering out multiple chapters at a time and meeting looming deadlines. Immersed in his work, rain beating soothingly against his office windows, the hours slipped away unnoticed, unacknowledged until a hunger pang startled him from his trance-like state.

 _Sweet Jesus_ , he grimaced. He was starving. It was nearly dinner and he hadn't had anything today except a few bites of Alexis' poptart. As his awareness returned, he felt the stiff discomfort of remaining stationary for so long and rolled his shoulders, wincing. He really needed to take better care of himself, he mused ruefully, stretching his arms over his head as he stood.

He ordered a pizza and then realized with a little frisson of excitement that he hadn't checked the mail. Palming his keys, he made his way downstairs, unaccountably anxious, because it had been nearly two weeks since he'd sent the letter. More than enough time for someone to receive his correspondence and write back. But his mailbox had remained conspicuously devoid of any responses. It could be that his letters failed to reach the proper K. Beckett, or that she had received his letter and simply had no interest in responding. But he wouldn't resign himself to that possibility. Not yet. There was still hope. Too much had gone right for this pursuit to end in futility. Fate simply wouldn't allow it.

Chase Bank junk mail, a Black Pawn newsletter, financial statement, bills, bills, bills, a sales sheet, and...oh, God.

 _A letter_.

His hands actually trembled a little as he drank in the elegant slope of the sender's handwriting, the way she formed her last name with the _B_ tilted ever so slightly to the right.

 _K. Beckett_ , read the return address, and she was located right here in NYC! It shouldn't have shocked him, but it did. That he could have encountered her, spoken with her, even seen her in passing was a thought as strange as it was exciting. Granted, in a city of more than 8 million people, it was doubtful they had ever met, but still. That return address made this whole exchange...less impersonal. It made it real.

It seemed an eternity before he was back upstairs, ensconced in the warm, leather curve of his office chair, struggling for calm as he broke the envelope's seal with a silver letter opener.

He swallowed hard, tamping down the anticipation that welled up in him, ratcheted his pulse, clogged his throat.

 _Why the hell did this matter so much?_

Unfolding the crisp white paper, he began to read by the dove-gray light filtering in through the window panes.

 _Dear R. Rodgers,_

 _Fate has never been particularly kind to me_ — _in fact I don't put any stock in the concept_ — _but whatever led you to my book, I'm unaccountably grateful._

 _Approximately a year ago, I took a semester abroad and asked a family member to ship me a box of personal items. Through some negligence on his part, the box never made it to the post office. It was forgotten on a bus and, presumably, picked over and pieced out. How the book ended up at a secondhand shop, much less in your hands, is a point of some astonishment to me. Of all the bookshops in all the cities...yes, it is an incredible coincidence._

 _I'm...surprised that you would take the time to seek me out, and don't want to assign any stalkerish motives to your altruism, though I can't help but wonder. Needless to say, I've got a wary eye on you, Mr. Rodgers._

 _So in short, no. I did not relinquish possession of the book voluntarily. It was lost to me through a series of unfortunate circumstances that were beyond my control, and I'm eager to have it back._

 _Why Rick Castle's books? Why A Rose for Everafter? It's not something I particularly want to elaborate on. But suffice to say, Castle was the favorite author of someone I lost, someone dear to me. And this book was their favorite of all his novels, though they never told me why. In reading his books, I feel a sense of connectedness, of closeness that vanished when they passed on. In dissecting his text, I come closer to understanding why they so appreciated this book in particular. I see traces of them in phrases, see what appealed to their sense of humor and personality. It's a very small, very personal way to remember them, to honor their memory._

 _You're right in your assumptions about my educational aspirations, but I'm not going to narrow it down! Continue to speculate!_

 _And as to my name, I think we should maintain our anonymity._

 _There's a lovely sense of freedom in conversing with a nameless, faceless stranger that appellations will ruin._

 _I can't thank you enough for seeking me out and returning my book! Please let me know what the cost of shipping runs and I'll be sure to reimburse you. It was nice to hear from you, and despite myself, I'm pleased to hear you like my mind. I'm rather fond of it as well._

 _Sincerely,_

 _K. Beckett_

He stared at the letter, her dainty text swimming in his field of vision, and expelled a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Because...he liked her.

He _really_ liked her. Someone he didn't even know. And he _wanted_ to know her, which was problematic. She wouldn't even volunteer her name. There was a tragic quality to her words that was just so attractive. A softness that was almost incongruous with her hyper-rationalism, with the blasè way she dismissed fate, chalked it all up to "coincidence".

She was enigmatic and brilliant and wordy and complex and... _oh_.

 _Damnit, Rick._

His stream of thought trailed off and he regarded the letter with a long-suffering sigh, suddenly wishing for a drink.

He was already in way over his head, wasn't he?

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _Guys, thank you so much for your response to the first chapter! I was pretty blown away by the number of follows, favorites, and reviews it received in such a limited amount of time! I appreciate those who took the time to leave feedback and look forward to hearing your thoughts on this latest installation!_

 _Also, I apologize for the formatting problems in the first chapter and I think I've resolved the issues brought to my attention!_

 _Up next...Rick and K. Beckett strike up a pen pal relationship._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: What's in a Name?**

 _ **Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.**_

* * *

Oh, he was so in over his head, he lamented, adjusting his noose-like bowtie and itchy collar with a sweeping glare. Everyone here looked so at ease despite the formality of the occasion. Women toddled about on spindly heels, vacuum-sealed in designer gowns, with extravagant hair styles and makeup that looked as though it would survive a hurricane.

Thank god for suits. Cummerbunds were inarguably atrocious, and uncomfortable to boot, but he didn't mind the stifling wool and over-starched cotton in comparison with what these women had to endure for the sake of social conventionalities and male appreciation.

No wonder they hated men.

Frankly, this whole evening was shredding his last nerve.

Alexis had returned following almost two weeks spent with his mother only the night before, and as she was regaling him with technicolor stories-he was impressed with his mother's ability to cram so many experiences into one trip-relating their visits to observatories, the New England Aquarium, countless museums, historical landmarks, Frog Pond, she halted her story abruptly, dropped her half-eaten grilled cheese, and promptly vomited all over the floor.

And the night only deteriorated from there. He split his time emptying out a bowl now destined for the trash, and soothing Alexis with cool cloths and warm blankets as she chose to suffer through those miserable hours in valiant silence. Her fever had finally broken around 9:00 the next morning, and she slipped immediately into a coma-like sleep, clothes and hair still clammy from sweat.

There was nothing quite so terrifying, he decided, as a sick child. Despite all evidence to the contrary, and ample prior experience, some insidiously niggling fear always made him question his choices, filled him with anxiety that what appeared to be a simple stomach bug was in fact viral meningitis or West Nile or the plague. And there it was-the dark side of his imagination coming out to play.

Oh, and _WebMD_. He kind of wanted to rabbit punch whoever'd had the bright idea to create that site.

He'd been so thoroughly exhausted, utterly wrung out, that he couldn't even sleep. So he contented himself with mindlessly watching reruns of _Temptation Lane_ , sprawling bonelessly on the sofa, and trying not to worry as he stroked Alexis' sticky hair.

And then, with a sickening jolt, he'd remembered.

The Black Pawn gala.

He'd actually groaned aloud at the thought, his chin wearily dropping to his chest. There was no way Paula would allow him to back out, either. Not with so many influential players in attendance. It's all she'd spoken of for months, an unsettling predatory gleam in her eye as she fired off lists of names, who to talk up, who to avoid, who to flirt with, who to charm. Because if he managed to secure affluent acquaintances, it could pave the way for additional financial backing, better book tours, more advantageous promotional deals. All of which added up to a more substantial commission for Paula. What a vulture.

He'd tried anyways, filled her in on the gory details of his evening, and she'd gone off on him, informing him in great detail of the cavernous depths and limitless boundaries to his selfishness, railing until he finally just set the phone to the side and stared dully at the flickering TV screen. It was pointless to fight it. Paula was as overwhelming a force as the virus that had leveled Alexis. He was going to the gala. End of story.

So here he was, looking like a penguin, out-of-place, stranger to all but Paula in attendance. Oh, and his mother. Who was looking sensational in crimson. She had made it out, eager to rub shoulders and network with the New York celebutantes, especially those that fell into the "male, upper class, over 60" crowd.

The truth was, he'd already endured this tired song-and-dance more times than he wanted to-obsequiously scraped and bowed to men with fat wallets and fatter heads, with tiny brains and tinier hearts. When his first best-seller had topped lists, he'd been dazzled by the beautiful veneer of refinement, but with maturation and the passing years came discernment. It was all a facade. All a glamour to disguise the damaged, scarred underbelly. Everyone had problems, everyone was a wreck. Elie Tahari dresses and Armani suits only hid it well.

Standing awkwardly to the side of the refreshment table, he could see his mother's vivid head bobbing, arms gesticulating wildly as she carried on a conversation with a tall blonde. A very attractive tall blonde, but who was looking? Not him, he reminded himself sternly. He had enough on his plate as it was, and although he loved fatherhood and all of the lispingly innocent discussions that came with it, he did long for profound, Mariana-Trench-deep conversation with an adult from time to time. So...maybe he was looking a little.

A faint, knowing smile curved his mouth as his thoughts flickered from the melee of the ballroom to the quiet intensity of K. Beckett's last letter. She was astonishing, he had decided, sight-unseen. Genius wasn't required to deduce she was the walking equivalent of aged, single-malt scotch-rich, rare, and addicting. He hadn't mentioned the letters to anyone, and didn't plan on doing so in the foreseeable future. Having this secret, this thing that was his and his alone, was...revitalizing.

* * *

 _As soon as he finished her letter, he read through it a second time, savoring certain words, speculating on the sound of her voice, the curve of her smile, wistfully wishing he could meet her. Almost compulsively, he lurched for his favorite fountain pen and sheet of cream vellum and began to pour out a response he was certain was entirely too familiar, too friendly. But he couldn't reign it in-K. Beckett's words and the ambiguity of letter-writing had swept away the little reserve he possessed._

 _ **K. Beckett,**_

 _ **On behalf of Fate, I apologize, and I hope that in the return of your long-lost book you find some semblance of reassurance. That sometimes the universe conspires for good, and not for ill. I would offer my condolences, but saying "sorry" for the loss of a loved one has always seemed abrasive and in poor taste to me. Rather, if I dared to presume, I would ask how you were coping. I would ask if receiving A Rose for Everafter will assuage or exacerbate your pain. I would ask if you had a network of friends who helped to carry you through the darkness. But I won't ask for responses to what I know are probing questions, because I don't know you, do I? Although, I'll admit in what I'm sure is an off-putting level of sincerity and oversharing, I feel as though I do know you.**_

 _ **Presumptuous? Yeah, it is. My apologies.**_

 _ **So, I won't ask. But I**_ _ **hope**_ _ **you're doing well. I hope the book will help. And I hope you have people that are there to catch you.**_

 _ **Speculate? It's what I do best! Don't tempt me to speculate, K. Beckett! I'll speculate wildly, and unapologetically! My gut instinct-and the fact that you're an intelligent, ambitious women with enough financial support to attend Stanford-is informing me that you studied law. But that's where my quasi-certainty ends. You're...unexpected. Unconventional. Or at the very least, that's what your letter reflected. Stanford, your verbal eloquence, and your stunning intellect would make you a formidable lawyer, but to be honest, I'm at a loss as to what you chose to do with your degree! You're back in NYC-which, on an off-note, is another astonishing coincidence-and I can see you kicking ass and taking names as...a defense attorney, a prosecutor, a politician, law enforcement. You're a difficult case, K. Beckett. Hard to pin down.**_

 _ **And speaking of speculation-Kelly, Kari, Kimberly, Kasey?**_

 _ **I'll guess it eventually, I'm sure. In the meantime, if you're choosing the evasive high ground, allow me to be the transparent one in this strange communication! I'm a male, 30-years-old, in the business of books, and am the single parent of an extraordinarily precocious daughter.**_

 _He paused, wanting to give her his name, to potentially inspire a greater degree of trust between them, but Rick or Richard seemed...too obvious. He was probably overthinking this, as he was generally wont to do, but he decided to play it safe. Because she was right to an extent-the anonymity was nice. He could be who he wanted within reason, and he wanted to not be Rick Castle in this thing. To leave behind the playboy persona and fame if only for a moment._

 _ **I go by my middle name-I've always considered my given name to be a bit too pretentious-which is Alexander, but those who know me well address me simply as Alex. I apologize if I've somehow ruined the magic of this for you by eliminating the obscurity, at least on my part. But it felt strange, knowing you didn't know my name. So use it, lose it, leave it, up to you.**_

 _ **Kayla, Kristin, Kathleen, Kathryn?**_

 _ **I hope you enjoy the book, and don't concern yourself with reimbursement! The cost was trivial and the knowledge that I've restored it to you is compensation enough.**_

 _ **I know this started up strangely-receiving a letter from a total stranger, the appearance of a prodigal novel, your life so voyeuristically interrupted-but, I'll take it a step farther, up the ante and make an even more bizarre request...**_

 _ **Would you consider writing back?**_

 _ **Keeping up this odd pen pal correspondence?**_

 _ **If not, I'll take radio silence as your response, but I really do hope to hear from you again! You're rather like a mental breath of fresh air, and I've enjoyed this more than I ever expected.**_

 _ **In the meantime, take care of yourself, Kara Beckett? Kathy Beckett? Karli Beckett?**_

 _ **All the best,**_

 _ **Alex Rodgers**_

 _Was that okay? It looked okay, but the marvelous K. Beckett would be reading this, and the natural confidence he typically had in his writing abilities was suspiciously absent at this moment. He waited a beat, double-checked his grammar and word choices, and gave a mental shrug. That was going to have to do._

 _He grabbed the book with the intention of packaging it, but paused, stroked the cover, flipped it open and scanned K. Beckett's notes fondly. It's just...he'd read through the annotations, enjoyed every word, even laughed aloud a few times. And selfish as it sounded, he didn't want to give them up. Didn't want to forget the nuances and subtleties of her analyses. After a moment's thought, his eyes flickered in triumph, and he reached for the digital camera he kept in his desk drawer. He couldn't keep the book, much as he would like to, but pictures were the next best thing._

 _After grabbing his rain slicker, and a high wind umbrella for good measure, he forged back out into the sideways rain, fighting his way to the nearest blue postal box and depositing the letter with a little prayer to a higher power. That the letter found its way to her when she was in an especially receptive frame of mind. That his words drew her in, touched something in her. And most of all, that they prompted a response._

 _With Alexis away, the remainder of his week was spent accomplishing tasks that were all too often relegated to the bottom of his priority list-parenting, writing, sleeping, eating, and then housekeeping. He made a long overdue dental appointment, sorted and donated a trash bag full of threadbare t-shirts and sweaters, went grocery shopping in peace, made and froze casseroles and soups. And, of course, wrote until he was certain his fingertips would bruise. It was a good week, albeit slow and lonely-God, he needed some friends-and he made certain to keep up with Alexis and Martha's goings-on via evening phone conversations._

 _It was a little over a week following his mad-dash through the rain, on his way back from writing and people watching at Common Grounds, that it happened. He collected his mail and took the stairs up, carding through the envelopes and surprising himself with an involuntary yelp of elation because..._ she had responded _._

 _Containing his excitement until he had returned to the loft was a struggle-he almost killed himself racing up the stairs in a flurry of limbs-but then he was through the front door, and sliding onto his couch and tearing impatiently into the envelope._

 _It felt like freaking Christmas. Better maybe._

 _ **Dear Alex,**_

" _ **Refreshing" is the word that came to mind after reading your variation on what are all too often tired, platitudinous condolences. You're right-apologies don't help. After all, what do they have to be sorry for? They didn't contribute to my loss. And really, are they truly sorry? Do they feel a cavernous ache in their chest, a brutal sting behind their eyes, the agony of grief tearing at them with every mention of their dead relative? Sorry is offensive. Sorry is shallow and empty. I hate sorry.**_

 _ **Sorry. About that. I just...you're right. And I didn't realize how angry it made me, that everyone is telling me**_ **sorry** _ **like they actually are and then just moving on with their lives. While I'm still...here. Stuck. Hurting. Alone. The one that's truly sorry.**_

 _ **And the book does help, thank you. Really. It's helping more than I anticipated, to have back something of theirs I thought was gone forever.**_

 _ **People, though. Well...I'm not exactly what you would call an open book. I don't even have a synopsis on my dustcover. I'm almost certain my coworkers think I'm an elitist bitch, with how closed off and utterly to myself I am. And it's not that I don't care, it's that if I allow myself to care at all, with everything weighing on me right now, I think I would fly apart into a million irretrievable pieces. So, yeah...I mean, this letter is a pretty clear testament to why I generally choose not to talk to people about anything going on in my life. Because it's just too damn much.**_

 _ **Now I'm**_ **really** _ **sorry. I've just emotionally vomited all over you, and I'm tempted to chuck this copy and start afresh, but...frankly, I'm tired of redacting my life. This anonymity is permission to be the rawest version of myself. If you want to peace out after reading my angsty ramblings, I'll more than understand. And if not, well, you're a stronger man than I anticipated.**_

 _ **I take it you're persistent, hmm? Excellent guesses, many of them. I'm loving the enthusiasm, keep up the good work! But really? It should be clear based on my vocabulary alone that I couldn't possibly be a Kari or a Karli. It's almost insulting, actually. Oh, Alex. And I thought you were perceptive!**_

 _ **Don't be so dramatic. Your given name couldn't possibly be that terrible. And it begins with an R, if I'm remembering correctly? Don't tell me. Rasputin? Rachmaninov? Reginald? Roderick? If it's any of those, I can understand the name change. My condolences on your misfortune! Playgrounds must have been horrifying places for you. Children can be so cruel.**_

 _ **But you have one, Randal, so I guess you know! What is she like, this precocious daughter?**_

 _ **Surprisingly, despite my general avoidance of close relationships and intimate heart-to-hearts, I've...enjoyed this, too. So no, I don't mind writing. And thank you again for the book. Having it back in my possession means more than I can say.**_

' _ **Til next time, Rufus!**_

 _ **Sincerely,**_

 _ **K. 'Not Karli' Beckett**_

 _He laughed once, a little desperately, and raked a hand through his hair as he lowered the letter to his lap._

 _Oh, god. He was in so deep.  
_

* * *

He'd started a reply, but got a call from Paula that had sidetracked him, and then inspiration for his next chapter had struck. Before he knew it, the day was gone, it was 3:00 in the morning, and Alexis was coming home the next day. And then, of course, Alexis' apocalyptic illness hit and he was emotionally blackmailed into attending this hellish gala, and now he was standing in a corner, sweaty, itchy, cranky, and wishing he was at home with his kid, who, thank god was on the rebound.

Wishing he was writing a letter instead of working to maintain this cheesy semblance of a smile.

Tugging irritably at his collar, he turned to the buffet table, popped a whole tart in his mouth, pirouetted on his heel, and came face to face with, _oh god_ , the hot blonde.

"Hello," she smiled coolly up at him, extending a hand expectantly, "your mother pointed you out to me-Martha Rodgers? I'm Gina Cowell, and I was wondering if I could have a word with you, Mr. Castle. I'd love to talk about your novels and a partnership that may prove mutually beneficial."

It was well past midnight by the time Rick made it back to the loft, voice hoarse, head pounding from the raucous laughter and shrill conversation. Rina was curled cat-like on his couch, her petite frame swathed in blankets, intently watching some Law & Order spinoff type show, and greeted him with a soft hello and sleepy smile. She quietly told him about her evening with Alexis, shyly accepted the generous bundle of bills he offered her, and slipped out the door to her father's waiting car.

This evening had been...interesting. To say the very least. Gina Cowell's persistence was admirable, and she had this delicate, icy beauty that he could appreciate aesthetically, but...for all her outward charms, she didn't particularly appeal to him. For whatever reason. Maybe it was her flat affect, her artificial smile, the fish-like quality to her eyes. He wasn't certain.

She'd made it more than clear she was interested-pressed her business card into his hand meaningfully, gave him a pointed look, followed it up with a breathy "feel free to call me"-but his interest was solely contained to her professional abilities. And nothing more. He had the feeling that Gina was all about appearances, that maybe the perfect front she took such obvious pains to maintain was the extent of her substance. And that perfection made her beautiful, but untouchable. Not his type.

He was more interested in deeply wounded, surprisingly sarcastic, intensely mysterious Stanford graduates with a penchant for campy Rick Castle novels.

Speaking of which...

He wandered into the haven of his office, his tension dissipating as he waded into the silence and the dim orange light cast by his banker's lamp. K. Beckett's letters lay beneath a spherical paperweight on his desk, his fountain pen and stationary in a neat pile beside that. A smile brightened his features and he settled into his chair with a contented sigh.

He had a letter to write.

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _Wow, you guys are really blowing me away with your response to this fic! This idea is proving to be such a joy to explore and write, and I hope I'm doing the concept and characters justice. My schedule is rather free at the moment, which has allowed for a lot of literary productivity, but I expect life to pick up pretty drastically in the next few weeks. Enjoy the frequent updates while you can, and please bear with me when the wait is more substantial! I'm humbled that you're still reading and look forward to hearing your thoughts on this latest chapter._

 _Up next...we finally hear from K. Beckett firsthand._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 : Bear Up**

 _ **Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.**_

* * *

She had reached her threshold of exhaustion hours ago, somewhere back on page three of what was fast becoming a report of Biblical proportions. Words were blurring together on the screen, her eyes felt tight and dry in their sockets, and she was fairly certain something fuzzy was growing on the surface of her tongue.

Jesus, when was the last time she'd brushed?

Faintly disgusted with herself, she dove back in with a grimace, submerging herself in the technical, oddly comforting parlance of police reports. She found a sort of solace in the legalese, appreciating the consistency of this task when so little else was in her line of work.

"Beckett," a voice from behind her cut through her concentration, jerking her rudely from her task. She turned expectantly, a little peevishly, but hurriedly wiped the annoyance from her face.

"Captain, what can I help you with?" Montgomery stood leaning against the door jamb, regarding her with something akin to frustration. Oh, she…she was the only occupant left in the bullpen, she realized with some surprise. When had everyone left for the evening? She hadn't even noticed, too absorbed in her work, too mired in her thoughts.

"Didn't you pull a double yesterday?" He asked, his expression indicating he already knew the answer.

"Oh, well...yes, but-"

"Which would mean you're topping 50 hours on duty."

It was a statement, not a question, and from the warning in his eyes, she didn't dare unleash the objections crawling up her throat. "That would be correct, sir," she affirmed quietly.

"Go home, Beckett," he ordered, "there's a 48-hour cut-off in place for a reason. If you're trying to prove your value by working yourself to the bone, don't bother. You're an incredible asset to this team—youngest woman to be appointed detective, allowed to take the PDET a whole year early, passing with flying colors no less—and rookie or no, we're happy to have you. And..." He stepped toward her, his expression gentling and gaze softening in a way that had her eyes burning for an entirely different reason.

"If you're using this, the job, as a distraction...well, I can't support that either. I may understand it, relate to the compulsion, even. But I can't condone it. Detective work doesn't allow for escapism, Kate."

Well, that...frankly, it stung a little. Or a lot. She…liked Montgomery. More than that, she admired him, the kind of man and captain he was, what he stood for. She wanted that positive regard to be reciprocal. Even if she didn't agree with his directive, even if she didn't like it, she would respect it. For his sake. And for the sake of whatever professional—and perhaps personal—relationship they might build.

Tersely, she nodded her affirmation, and he gave her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes in return. "Good. Now go home. And I better not see you in here for at least another 12 hours."

She blinked owlishly at him, fatigue and the faintest whisper of common sense staying her entreaties.

Go home? To what? The dark seclusion of her mind? Another night spent sleeplessly tossing? Anger rolled through her, bloomed feverishly in her chest, resentment that Montgomery was forcing her hand. Eliminating the small portion of control she had over her life. And yeah, she knew she was reacting disproportionately, that Montgomery was in the right, that her anger wasn't justifiable. In all likelihood, it was sleep deprivation and no small amount of shame from the dressing down she'd received. Perhaps that's what had her so riled? Honestly, she was too drained to spend energy analyzing her motives.

Fine. Twelve hours and not a minute more. She'd give him that much. Four hours of restless sleep followed by a solid eight combing through paperwork and files she'd paid good money to obtain.

Time to bow out gracefully. Or at least not leave in abject humiliation. Was that still a possibility? Wordlessly, she rose from her lumpy desk chair and collected her paperwork and meager belongings from her workspace, hurriedly stowing them in a battered leather cross body, flicked her eyes to Montgomery in a pathetic parting gesture as she strode toward the exit.

"And, Beckett," he interjected, his voice imposing and piercing, halting her progress. A pause then, as he patiently waited for her to meet his gaze. Oh…he was back to looking serious and tense. Unnerving her.

"If you're going to dig into your mother's case...keep it quiet, understand? Cover your tracks. And don't do anything stupid. You're a good detective—have the potential to be one of the best, matter of fact—and I would like to ensure you have the opportunity to realize that potential. Are we understood?"

Shit. Oh, _shit_. Shit, shit, shit.

Her heart doubled its pace, her breath leaving her body in hot, heavy puffs. Horror raced down her spine, sucked the moisture from her mouth, made her weak-kneed, start to tremble like a junkie. Because _shit_. She'd been certain no one had known, thought she'd been so damn careful. Because if she wanted to continue investigating, _no one_ could know. How the _hell_ had he found out?

"Paul, down in records," he murmured, answering the question she was too cotton-mouthed to ask. "Good guy, keeps me well-informed. Fifty bucks doesn't buy the silence it used to, Kate. You shouldn't have been so stingy if you were looking for him to keep his mouth shut. Well, and he's pretty damn loyal to me. Has been ever since I got him the job."

Right. Loyalty. Heat flooded her face at the implication, at the remorse that rushed through her. He was standing there talking to her about loyalty, looking on with this paternal expression, without a trace of condemnation. And all after she'd gone behind his back, had bribed a city official, had broken more rules than she could possibly count. He just...let her. Seemingly understood that her life was no longer hers, that this need had overtaken _everything_. Prudence, ethics, any sense of self-preservation or personal safety—it had died with her mother.

God, she had to get out of here before she forfeited the very tenuous control she had on her emotions. And it was a fast losing battle. Her guilt was flooding her eyes, clogging her throat. Or was that suppressed grief? Plenty of that to go around.

Her mother, her father, now Montgomery...she just kept letting people down. She kept failing.

"Y—yes, sir. I—I'll—I promise not to embarrass you. Or the department. And I'm sorry for—for not telling you. For not being up front. And...I...thank you, sir. Good—good night."

And then she fled in blind desperation, the coalescence of her pain and guilt and anger and overwhelming fear threatening to drag her down a bottomless rabbit hole from which there was no crawling back. She could lose herself in this. Might have already done so. Lost in her mother's murder, her compulsory "pursuit of truth", her need to fill this aching void in her chest with something. _Anything_.

Miraculously, she'd managed to successfully wend her way through the labyrinth of streets and subway tunnels, arriving at her stuffy little fourth-floor walk up in one piece. Physically, that is.

She'd even grabbed her mail on the way up—force of habit, muscle memory, the desire for normalcy, who knows why. But in a day full of crappy decisions and even crappier outcomes, this was...well, it was something good. She needed something good.

And his letters were always good.

She didn't even make it to the couch, just dropped her bag and the remainder of her mail, envelopes fluttering, scattering as she lowered herself to the floor. _Alex Rodgers, how did you even know?_ He was some kind of mind reader. Had to be. The way he wrote…it was like he'd known her for years. Despite never having actually met her.

Fingers still trembling from adrenaline, from guilt, she tore into the envelope, and drank in his familiar handwriting, the bold pen strokes, clutching the expensive paper too tightly.

 **K. Beckett,**

 **You shouldn't feel obligated to apologize to me about this. Or to anyone! I may not know the particulars of your situation, your pain, but what is clear to me is that you suffered a tremendous loss, and no outside spectator should be permitted to dictate what you feel or how you cope. They're not in this, and you are.**

 **Speaking to your self-imposed distance, your compartmentalization—I believe that every painful experience is unique in its own right, and by that same logic, that it is inherently isolating. Pain inspires loneliness. We try to understand the suffering around us—we listen, we comfort, we grieve alongside others, and we do our level best to empathize. But regardless of our best efforts, we can't possibly comprehend the depths of outside pain, all the moving parts and constituents. Not fully.**

 **Truth be told, we can't even wrap our minds fully around our own pain, as I'm sure you know. We wrestle with it, struggle to subdue it. Sometimes for the entirety of our existence, we fight to conquer it, to come out on top. But grief? It's a force of nature, breaking and remaking us. The pain never leaves, it just fades with time until we learn to live with the ache. Rose Kennedy once denied the adage '** _ **time heals all wounds'**_ **, insisting** _ **"the wounds remain. In time, the mind protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone."**_ **I'm wont to agree.**

 **So you fending it off this way? By selectively communicating it? Is commendable. Not something that necessitates an apology. It's a step forward. A little scar tissue. And I for one am honored to be a very small part of the process. No more apologies, Kara.**

 **And you should know that you're not alone, not entirely. Although ours is a…unique situation that prevents me from being physically present in your life, I like to think that I'm still a companion of sorts. An undeniably strange one, and really, really unconventional. But here for you, all the same. Keep talking, keep healing, I'll keep listening. Promise.**

 **I had planned on writing this much earlier in the day, but circumstances conspired against me, and now it's 1:45 and I'm afraid my words lack their usual clarity. Tonight was…a strange affair. I should be sleeping but instead I'm writing, decompressing from this nauseating gala I compulsorily attended. Everyone was loud and too smiley and vying for attention and financial backing, and all I could think about was how I really wanted to be home with my sick kid. And your letters. Instead, I fended off the professional—and personal—advances of a contemporary, and was too uncomfortably warm in my overpriced tux to choke down any of the tasteless food they offered. All in all, it went pretty much how I expected…Kaitlyn?**

 **Maybe not. You don't seem like a Kaitlyn. But color me astonished, Ms. Beckett! You also didn't seem like the kind of girl who would assign stereotypes based on names alone! Your vocabulary** _ **is**_ **spectacular, but I'll have you know I once had the pleasurable acquaintance of a woman named Bambi whose IQ put Mensa members to shame. The letter** _ **i**_ **is a perfectly charming vowel, no different than** _ **e**_ **or** _ **a**_ **, and** _ **o**_ **sorry** _ **,**_ **now I'm rambling, aren't I?** _ **Y**_ **is that?** _ **U**_ **think I'd learn to stop while I was ahead, but no. Verbose to a fault!**

 **I apologize for the puns, I'm a bit ashamed, I'm blaming it on the hour. The wordplay is keeping me awake in the absence of coffee. It's nearly two in the morning, and I've, rather unfortunately, caught my third or fourth wind. At this point, I've lost count. I'm also blaming my daughter, who kept me awake for much of last night, held in the throes of a vicious stomach flu. When she's not projectile vomiting, she's an absolute joy. Honestly, I couldn't have asked for a sweeter, funnier, more intelligent child—which is, I'm sure, what every parent maintains, but in my case it's true! She plays the violin, loves to read, gives stellar advice, and is a charming contradictory blend of caution and curiosity that never fails to intrigue me.**

 **And you, K. Beckett. You intrigue me, too. Whatever mysterious force is compelling this atypical honesty…let it compel you! The last close relationship I had ended disastrously—my daughter's mother is best described as tornadic in nature—and suffice to say, for me, heart-to-hearts have been no-man's-land (or no-woman's-land, as it were) for quite some time now.**

 **Speaking of, you're not married, are you, Kendra?**

 **Stay well, keep healing, and keep writing!**

 **All the best,**

 **Alex**

When she finished the letter, her head slipped back, her crown coming to rest against the cool metal of her front door.

Alex. Good with words, good with puns. Good for her. And...she was too involved. Instinct told her to get out now, to tuck away the letters, look back on them fondly and chalk up the experience to curiosity. A whim. But that was the problem with this no-strings-attached correspondence—the unanticipated catch 22. She was _already_ too involved. Maybe more so than if she'd met him conventionally, through a face-to-face encounter. Too entangled to simply walk away at this juncture, despite not actually knowing the man. He was funny, and accepted her dark, twisted issues, and quoted Rose Kennedy, and talked about scar tissue. She liked Alex. She liked that Alex liked her, even though she shouldn't.

Enough, she groaned, and heaved herself to her feet. Deliberations regarding Alex would have to wait until after she'd slept. And her slowly developing murder board took precedence to letter-writing. She had new information to add, new truth to pursue. Setting the letter aside, setting herself aside, she gathered up her bag of files and made her way to the kitchen table. Hoping something might finally give way, that some piece of damning evidence might finally surface. Hoping, not for the first time, that she wouldn't let her mother down.

* * *

Sleep had been elusive, but she'd gotten some good work done on the timeline, combed through witness statements for inconsistencies and new information, stared at the crime scene photos until she felt numb and bleak and unbreakable, but also triumphant. Because she was doing this. Working what everyone insisted was a cold case, making a little headway, and not falling to pieces in the process. _What a cause for celebration_ , she mused dryly, and ate some chicken ramen to commemorate the inauspicious achievement. Halfway through the bowl, her scuffed phone vibrated against the formica tabletop, and she started at the sound, flipping it open with a curt "Beckett" in greeting.

"Katie," a voice slurred, "'s me, honey."

Her eyes fluttered shut, spoon clattering against the bowl as she pushed away from the table, nausea taking the place of her already limited appetite.

"Dad, where are you? Are you at home?"

"Yeah," he must have been pressed against the mouthpiece, his voice muffled by labored breathing, " 'm home. Lookin' at pictures, and…miss 'er." His voice broke on a rough sob, and her heart clenched at the sound even as anger knotted her stomach. _Again_. This was happening again. Honestly, she should have known. Their anniversary was right around the corner, and the closer it drew to that day—to any holiday or notable date, really—the more emotionally volatile her father became, self-medicating with liquor to curb the pain. It started with depression, which prompted reminiscence, which brought fresh grief, which necessitated drinking. And she…she was caught in the fallout.

Correction she _was_ the fallout.

"Stay where you are. I'm on my way," she promised—bitterness sharpening the words, roughening her voice—and then ended the call. There was too much latent rage simmering beneath the surface of her composure, and if she stayed on the line, all of the ugly thoughts and cutting words she had in check would spill over. Words she never meant to say, sentiments she could never take back…her honesty would _hurt_ him because she _wanted_ to hurt him. Just like he was hurting her. And he didn't need that. Not from her. He needed things she couldn't provide. He needed help. _It's a disease, it's a sickness, it's beyond him_ , she reminded herself dully, and then, pocketing her keys, she ran, _ran_ out the door. Because running away? It was kind of her thing. If she ran, she didn't have to think. And if she didn't think, she didn't have to feel.

When she arrived at his apartment, the door swung open with a gentle push, no key necessary, and she walked in calling his name. A half-empty decanter of brandy sat on the coffee table, a crystal tumbler beside it, photos scattered carelessly on the floor, her father absent from his recliner. "Dad?" Her voice sounded tired, hollow. No reply. She swept through the main circuit of rooms—den, kitchen, dining room, wondering if he was even still here. Coming up empty handed, she made her way into his bedroom, slipping into the master bath and…oh, _god_.

She dropped to her knees, a shriek ripping its way free of her chest as she thudded gracelessly to the floor. Blood and vomit seeped through the fabric of her jeans as she leaned over his prone body trying, _trying_ to control her shaking as she pressed her fingers against his neck, searching for a pulse. _Please be alive, please be alive, please…I_ need _you to be alive._ Her only lucid thought, as the panic crowded her mind, was of her mother. Of the night she died, the stoic lines of the officer's face, the way she so utterly lost control of herself, the way her grief actually _hurt_ —bloomed in her eyes, her chest, her stomach. It was such a physical, visceral response, and in the moment, she hadn't known if she would survive it. Hadn't really wanted to.

Losing her mother had broken her, but losing her father…it would end her. There would be no coming back from that.

* * *

Hours later, parked in a tweed hospital chair, she tried to find her equilibrium. He was going to be okay, some young ER doctor had promised, his eyes too kind, too compassionate as he explained her father's condition. Alcohol poisoning, he confirmed unnecessarily, bandying about vaguely familiar medical jargon—nasogastric tube _,_ intravenous drip, catheterization, CT scan, subdural haematoma. Apparently, when he collapsed, he'd struck his head—hence, the alarming amount of blood—and they wanted to keep him overnight for observation. Did she need anything? Was she staying here? Going home? Pity welling in his eyes, pity lacing his words. Since when had she become an object of pity? Somehow she managed to string together several coherent sentences, informed them she was going home but that she'd be back, and then left after they wheeled her father in for his neuro consult.

The walk back home was strangely reminiscent of her post-Montgomery dash the night before—mindless, anesthetized, surprisingly swift. One minute she was ambling out of the hospital's pneumatic doors, the next, swaying in the middle of her den. The silence cocooned her, wrapping around her until all that existed was the rasp of her own breath, the waning afternoon light glinting off of dust motes. She needed to call in to the 12th, report her absence, cite a reason, but all she had energy for was breathing. _In, and out. In, and out._

Unaccountably, it was Alex that came to mind as she stood there like a sapling in a storm. Thinking, _he wouldn't shy away from this, from me,_ as she gasped a breath in, sobbed it back out, and finally, _finally_ felt the tears come. They rolled off her face unchecked, landed on the scuffed leather toe box of her boat shoes, coming from some deep, wounded place inside of her. And she just…let it happen. Cried until her face was swollen and her eyelids were pink and raw and she was too fatigued to continue. She felt…better? Maybe that was the wrong word, because the grief was still there. But she felt empty, kind of scraped clean, and weary to her bones—almost like she'd done sprints or gone a couple rounds in the ring.

Wrung out, endurance somewhat restored, she stumbled to her little secretary desk.

 _Dear Alex,_

 _Unfortunately, I'm going to have to keep this brief. My day has been hell—a rather unfortunate perpetuation of the past five years, in fact—and I'll be hard pressed to respond at length for at least several days. Time for a little brutal truth. My father drinks. Often. And excessively. Currently, he's in the hospital, in pretty bad shape but expected to recover nonetheless. I'm telling you this not to garner sympathy, but because…I need to tell someone. Someone who understands. And you seemingly do, which was—I feel I should tell you—a notion buoying enough to carry me through the day. These letters help, and I value your…friendship? Words? I'm not certain how to categorize this thing we have, but I like it. So, if a week goes by and you don't hear from me, realize it's not me ignoring you or breaking contact. Far from that. I'm just…I'm at my limit, struggling to even breathe right now. But this_ will _pass, I_ will _respond, and I'm—rather presumptuously—banking on your kindness and understanding nature. Please don't go anywhere, Rorschach. I'll be back. Promise._

 _Faithfully (cross my heart hope to die),_

 _Kate_

It was right, giving him her name. It felt right. Despite the events of the day, despite her grief, and despite herself, she felt the beginnings of a smile. Because he was going to be beside himself. Karli Beckett? _Really, Alex?_ Katherine Houghton Beckett, thank you very much. Only Kate for now, though. She had to maintain a little mystery, keep him guessing. He clearly thrived on it—the thrill of the chase. And well, running was kind of her thing. Huh.

How complementary.

She showered—grateful to be free of her sticky, fetid clothes—and packed an overnight bag before heading back to the hospital, dropping Alex's letter into the post box on her way out of the building. The next few days passed in a blur of sea foam scrubs and test results, punctuated by awkward one word exchanges and tentative glances between Kate and her father. Gradually, the swelling in his face and head subsided, leaving behind bruises and a crusty laceration the doctor said was likely to scar. But they didn't talk about it. She read, he watched baseball or CNN, they discussed her promotion, his cases—masterfully evading what had grown from one proverbial elephant to a whole herd.

Until the day he was to be discharged, that is.

The doctor handed Jim a list of wound care instructions, discreetly raised the subject of rehab, and quickly moved on to well-wishes and parting handshakes. After the doctor's departure, they sat together stiffly in the expectant silence, looking everywhere but at each other. She heard him suck in a preparatory breath, and steeled herself for a justification, or worse, another meaningless apology. She'd been on the receiving end of so many the word, as she'd ranted to Alex, had lost all significance. "I…I'm sorry," he murmured, and she bit the lining of her lower lip, distracting herself with the pain, anchoring herself. Faced with her silence, he continued stiltedly. "I don't know why I…uh…" she saw his throat bob in her peripheral vision, wondered if he was craving a drink right now, "I don't know why I need it so badly…why I…" He trailed off, folded his hands, finished lamely with another "I…I'm sorry."

She let his words fade, allowed the silence to settle, and opened her mouth to deliver a pat acknowledgement, absolve him the same as always— _"It's okay, dad"_ —but when she opened her mouth, honesty came spilling out instead, clipped and bright and livid.

"Don't tell me you're sorry. Don't you _dare_ say you're sorry when we both know you're going to turn right around and have another drink as soon as you're out of my sight. Before your stitches are even out. You're not sorry, dad, because you're still drinking. You say you're done, but you're not. Sobriety is a hobby for you, dependent on your mood, your memories, the upcoming holiday. Well, I'm sorry you're hurting—honestly, I am—but I'm hurting too. I'm _aching_ , and I am alone. And all you can say is _I'm sorry._ Your actions are so deafening I can't hear your apologies—voluntarily destroying yourself, abandoning me emotionally, forcing me to pick up your pieces when I'm just as broken, and…and you're _sorry_? You're not sorry. _Fuck_ your sorry."

From his speechlessness, she knew she'd shocked the hell out of him. Quite frankly, she'd shocked herself. Because this, _this_ is what she worked so hard to hide from him—her naked pain—in an effort to shield his fragile emotions, to keep from adding to his burdens. This is why she was so damn closed off. Well, she was done. She was too angry, too worn out to continue pandering to his needs. And if she sounded jaded, if she sounded resentful, it's because she was.

"Stop saying you're sorry and do something about your problems, dad. I can't be your crutch anymore, because it's kind of _killing_ me," She finished brokenly, focusing hard on the wall in front of her to keep the tears at bay. He didn't speak, didn't respond, so she took her cue from his silence and started gathering her things, feeling his eyes on her as she stuffed a book, a sweater, striped socks into her duffel. "I called a cab for you," she informed him over her shoulder, "should be here any minute. I'm going to walk back to my place, clear my head, but I'll talk to you later." Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she finally turned to face him. He met her gaze levelly, pale but steady. "Thank you," he replied softly, and dropped his eyes, intently studying his interlaced fingers as she wondered where they went from here. How did you move on from something like this? Could you?

* * *

Her walk didn't provide any substantive insights, but she did treat herself to a latte on the way back home, sipping slowly at the frothy beverage, trying not to fixate on her dad and their rapidly fragmenting relationship. By the time she reached her apartment, she was all but vibrating from the caffeine and sticky from her walk, eager to be home, to shower off, to get back to the precinct. She had only just closed her front door, was in the process of toeing off her shoes, when someone buzzed her apartment. Really? She didn't have time for this. Whoever it was would have to come back another day, she decided, but they were persistent. Obnoxiously persistent, she grimaced. Honestly? Peevishly, she stalked over to the two-way and answered with a churlish "Beckett."

"Finally. Lady, let me up. I've got a delivery from a…a freaking Renoir." She actually laughed at that, a real one with teeth and a smile and everything, and then she buzzed him in.

 _Alex, what are you playing at?_

She swung the door open, trying to tamp down her enthusiasm and failing miserably. A swarthy, surly teenager stood balancing a massive floral arrangement in one arm and a brown paper bag in the other, regarding her blandly from beneath a flat brim cap as she accepted the items. "This is my second day here, sixth time total," he groused, stuffing his hands into capacious pockets. She narrowed her eyes at him, "Your second day?"

"Yeah," the kid shrugged, "Renoir's instructions were to keep coming back until you showed. Said your schedule was 'unpredictable' and to be 'persistent in my attempts'. As long as it takes, he said. So, two days I've been hauling this big-ass bouquet across town, three times a day. Paid really well, though, so guess I shouldn't complain," he added hastily at her scowl. Exchange made, he beat a quick, wordless retreat, and she kicked the door shut before setting the bouquet and bag on her desk. In what she assumed was an attempt to mimic Renoir's vivid, blowsy, impressionism, the arrangement was bursting with disheveled peonies, frangible roses, and muted camellias. The effect was stunning, and she let her fingers run over the velvety petals, savoring the coolness against her skin. Trying to reign in her growing smile and the fluttering in her stomach, she busied herself with moving the vase into the kitchen, but— _as long as it takes, Alex?—_ and she was helpless to the warmth that spread through her body, all the way down to her fingertips and toes.

Digging into the paper bag, she found a bar of expensive Swiss chocolate and another letter, both of which she promptly opened. Elbows braced on her countertop, she popped a square of chocolate into her mouth and eagerly began to read.

 **Dear Kate,**

 **Words don't seem an adequate vehicle for my feelings on this matter—sometimes words can't touch our pain—but I will say that I know you to be strong and insightful, and I venture to guess resilient as well. As you're walking through this season with your father, I hope you cling to those truths when you lack the desire, the will to persevere. And I hope you continue reaching out, to me and to others. Burdens this heavy should never be carried alone. That's the purpose of friendship and community—sharing griefs, bearing up when others cannot. And despite what you may feel, I don't believe honesty in this is a selfishness. Quite the opposite. Choosing to reveal your brokenness to others, it's a gift, especially from you. You hold your pain close like a secret, and the select few with whom you** _ **are**_ **open with those confidences…well, you should know I consider it a privilege. To know you. To catch even a glimpse of your resolve and forbearance.**

 **Like you, I'll keep this brief. With how chaotic your life is at the moment, perhaps simplicity is best. But I'll leave you with a resource, something I hope you'll draw on in the near future. Remember, you're not alone.**

 **All the best,**

 **Alex**

Kate swallowed quickly, the cocoa acrid in her throat, her pulse speeding up. Because under the loose scrawl of his name, there was a phone number followed by a tempting charge— _"Call me."_

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _This chapter is an angsty little thing, darker than the previous three, and staggeringly long (sorry about that). But Kate, as a character is darker, more broken, and hopefully it reads naturally. I'll bring back the fluff, I promise, but this content was crucial for character development and for building plot. Bear with me, for favor!_

 _Also, I want to thank you for the continued reviews, favorites, and follows_ — _I love people weighing in and providing feedback! Please feed the muse! :)_

 _Up next...Martha discovers the letters and Rick anxiously awaits Kate's response._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 : I Will Wait**

 _ **Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.**_

* * *

It was day six of what was proving to be a near interminable wait, and he was doing what he could to distract himself. Six days since that scraggly Eminem-wannabe had confirmed the successful delivery of Renoir's bouquet to Kate—who was, purportedly, a real "dime piece"—and despite his letter, despite the not-so-subtle inclusion of his personal number, she hadn't replied. Which...wasn't necessarily indicative of anything negative in relation to the two of them. Right now, her world was comprised of work, sleep, and damage control. He understood that perfectly, and what's more, he respected her for sacrificing so much of herself on the altar of family.

No, it wasn't that he begrudged Kate her recent absence or prioritization of time, it's that he was harboring the insidious fear that he'd royally screwed himself over. Or rather, jeopardized this slowly blossoming relationship.

Every letter received, every insight gained into Kate's complicated inner-workings, had only served to validate what he had predicted from the very start—she was a fawn. Or maybe a colt? No, she just _seemed_ like a fawn to him. Metaphorically speaking, that is. Point being, she was skittish. To earn her trust meant exhibiting an undue amount of delicacy and caution, traits he did not historically embody, although for her sake, he was willing to put in the work.

Honestly, he thought he'd done remarkably well at maintaining appropriate boundaries, patiently allowing the passage of time and the power of words to work their combined magic, waiting for her to warm to the idea of something more than a pen-and-paper relationship. Yeah, he could do that. He could find contentment in their mysterious exchange, and what's more, the method of communication profoundly appealed to his writer's side. This was good. It was enough, he had decided.

That is, until her last letter arrived.

Maybe it was because he was a father—knew what it was to want to shield Alexis from every potential for pain, knew without a doubt that he would stop at nothing to protect her—that Kate's wounded words, her obvious heartbreak cut him so deeply. His first impulse had been to throw caution to the wind, to hail a cab and just show up at her apartment unannounced, uninvited. But his rational side—however small—assured him his intrusion would be far from welcome. She was grieving, struggling just to make it through the day in all likelihood, and the presence of a relative stranger would only serve to complicate things for her. The idea was as tempting as it was stupid. But he could wait, could bide his time, avoid spooking her unduly.

 _Put in the work, Rick._

So, barring a face-to-face visit, his options were…what exactly? He knew where she lived, but little else beyond that in regards to contact information. No phone number, no email address, no clue where she worked. He wanted to alleviate her suffering, to intercede, if only for a moment, between Kate and the overwhelming pressures of self-assumed duty. Why he felt so compelled, he had no real explanation. But he did, inexplicably, and he decided to follow that intuition to its natural end. Wherever it took him.

In the immediate sense, it took him to his local florist. White-haired Vance was a very kind, very gay octogenarian, well-versed in botany and romance, and Rick trusted his judgment implicitly.

A visit to Vance had yielded amazingly creative results, but only after an exhaustive conversation on the merits of one Kate Beckett—her personality, her tastes, the sparing details to which he was privy. It actually depressed him a bit, how little he knew of her. It was almost as though they had done this whole thing in reverse, divulging intimacies and closely held grievances first, and saving the trivialities for later. What, he wondered, was her favorite color? Flavor of ice cream? Did she even like ice cream? Did she favor passion or practicality? Prefer cats or dogs? Or was she a fish person? What bands did she follow? What were her musical tastes? Did she play an instrument? A sport? He knew she read, knew her late relative's novel and genre of choice, but nothing of her literary tastes. And it was just…well, it was unconventional. Somehow, unaccountably, it worked for them. But he was looking forward to unearthing more of her foibles. Exploring her strata.

In the end, Vance had encouraged him to play to his strengths—romance, mystery, and wit. Drawing on the stories Rick had related, Vance crafted a beautiful bouquet modeled after a stunning Renoir still-life— _Flowers on a Marble Table_ or something along those very literal lines—promising the inside joke would make her laugh, the kind gesture would touch her, and the clever combination of the two would prove to be, in a word, enchanting.

Okay, calm down, Vance. He wasn't trying to underhandedly charm his way into her life, he was just…trying to make her smile. Based on what she had written of herself, he felt sure she didn't do that enough.

After shelling out an uncomfortable sum of money for the arrangement—and a substantial additional fee for what he was assured would be a persistent delivery boy—he proceeded to make a purchase from an extortionate chocolatier, traveled from there to his apartment, obtained his hastily scrawled letter, and finally returned to Vance's shop, entrusting the chocolate and the missive to his care.

And after that…well, it was a waiting game. Crossing his fingers, saying a prayer, engaging his mind and filling his time to keep himself from obsessing. She…well, she was worth waiting for. And surprisingly, the edge of suspense was producing some pretty fantastic written work. Or so said Gina, who he appreciated professionally if not personally.

He was actually on his way back from a lunch meeting with the ice queen herself—from discussing timelines and due dates; from hashing over the information she'd gleaned from the design team, compositors, production crew, and marketing personnel in regards to his prospective Derek Storm installment. The promotional materials Black Pawn had released were creating quite a stir. Fans were buzzing, urging them to move up the publication date. Itching for their next Rick Castle fix.

"The outlook", she'd crowed, raising her Bloody Mary in a mock salute, looking formidable in a glaring, white sheath dress, "is brilliant! People are saying you're the next Patterson—but with sex appeal and better hair. This'll top all the lists, just you watch, Rick. Paula already has TV and radio spots lined up, a half dozen book tours in major cities…you're on the fast track for real success!"

He'd bristled a bit at that. "Having already made the Times Bestseller list—on numerous occasions, I might add—I think it's safe to say I've achieved at least a modicum of success." But she'd waved off his irritation, laughed flippantly, and launched into her grand vision for him and the Storm franchise, droning on tirelessly as he ate an entire basket of bread to stave off boredom. And also to keep himself from making snarky comments. Bread was great for that.

And now? Now he was making his way down Broome Street, subdued from his conversation with Gina, glad to be nearly home. It wasn't that he disliked the idea of a meteoric rise to literary distinction—in fact, it had been one of his long-standing, seemingly improbable fantasies for…well, as long as he'd been writing. Surrounded by glamorous women, his name a household fixture, tantalizing anatomy proffered for autographs, money to burn. It all sounded luxurious, like everything he thought he'd ever wanted.

But to reach that pinnacle, were the sacrifices really worth it?

For starters, his relationship with Alexis was bound to suffer. Leaving her alone for weeks at a time, entrusted to the care of others, missing out on pivotal milestones and quiet moments no one would remember or treasure but him…the idea alone had his stomach in knots. He'd done national book tours before, of course, but Alexis had been young enough to come along. Once he'd enrolled her in kindergarten, he'd insisted on keeping his book tours and signings confined to New York and its bordering states. He was performing well enough that Black Pawn had grudgingly agreed, but that was all pre-Gina.

If that wasn't enough, there was the increased pressure to perform, further diminished protection of privacy, and of course, the pleasure of always second-guessing the motives of everyone around him. Was it his money prompting their flattery, their attention? Did they see him at all? Or were they enticed by the promise of glamour, the exotic lifestyle he represented? Unanswerable questions, he knew. But if there was one thing he missed from his starving artist days, it was that—incontrovertibly genuine friendships.

Home at last, he shook off his maudlin thoughts and went upstairs to relieve his mother, who had graciously agreed to watch Alexis for the afternoon. The loft was abnormally quiet as he entered, doffing his blazer and flipping the lock behind him. Were they in Alexis' room? He announced his arrival and was a little surprised to see Martha emerge from the interior of his office. She leaned against the doorway, her expression inscrutable, and then wordlessly held out his bundle of Kate's letters.

 _Oh. Well, this should be interesting._

* * *

"Richard," she arched a copper eyebrow imposingly, "Who is K. Beckett?"

"Snooping again, Mother?" He sniped defensively, which, judging by the indignant light in Martha's eyes, may not have been his wisest approach.

"I was searching for batteries, which you apparently neglect to keep on hand, at least anywhere predictable. Alexis has some electronic book—toy—"

"Her Leap Pad," he provided helpfully.

"Don't interrupt me, Richard," she reproved, "but yes, I suppose it was her Leap Pad. And she said she didn't know where they might be, and you didn't have batteries in any of the kitchen drawers or in the table in the entryway, so I assumed you must keep them in your office. But instead of double A's, I found these. And now I'm curious, because…well, K. Beckett sounds like quite the mystery."

"Does she?" Rick hedged, settling warily on the edge of his couch. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but it wasn't this—frank interest and suppressed anticipation. Maybe even the beginnings of a smile.

"Subtlety has never been your byword, darling. You have a surfeit of marvelous traits—creativity, fierce intellect, lovely eyes, a scintillating wit…you're also quite adept at jumping to conclusions," she simpered pointedly, and he felt about two inches tall, "—but not secrecy. Never secrecy. Until, that is," she held up the envelopes meaningfully, "K. Beckett. Why haven't you mentioned this? Your correspondence? And don't fret, I haven't read beyond the return address."

There was no condemnation in her inquiry or expression, simply curiosity. And maybe that was why he decided to tell her about Kate, felt like his mother might be an invaluable co-conspirator in this mission, in helping him navigate foreign waters. It was one thing to draw on the expertise of Vance, to petition Sherri Traeger for help—who, he winced inwardly, deserved a bouquet herself—but it was another thing entirely to have a real life confidante. His hesitation in telling her, or anyone, had been born of selfishness, primarily—the idea of covert missives vastly appealed to the romantic in him—but it was also a bid for…success? Was that the right sentiment?

It's just…the more interference he received, the greater probability something would go awry. If it's not broke, don't fix it, right? Not that he'd run a formal risk analysis, or knew his assumption to bear any validity, it was simply a…gut reaction. An unfounded presupposition. Kate was private, she clearly valued confidentiality, and he doubted if she would appreciate him sharing the details of her life with others. Divulging the details of her letters felt like a betrayal to him.

Well…and part of him was fearful of the criticism he might suffer. Because it did sound outlandish—reaching out to a total stranger, volleying emotionally charged letters back and forth, sending his pen pal extravagant floral arrangements—he was aware. It was _wildly_ unconventional. But it seemingly worked for them, and he wanted it to _keep_ working.

"Well," he hummed, "a variety of reasons, really. Mostly because by keeping this quiet, it preserved the mystery. Because she is. Like you said. Quite—quite the mystery."

Martha nodded sagely, glided from the doorway to a seat opposite him, and folded her hands expectantly. _Talk_ , her pose demanded, so he did.

"It just…happened. On that trip to the Hamptons. Maybe a month ago? Meredith had cancelled their Disney trip," he told her lowly, "and I was doing everything I could think of to cheer her up."

"That woman is an inspiration…" Martha muttered scathingly, "for a fictitious victim in a future novel. Murder-for-hire never looked so appealing."

"I should probably be scandalized, but I'm inclined to agree with you. I pulled out all the stops that week, starting with a preparatory trip to that little used book store off of I-495— _Second Time Around_. I thought…I don't know. She loves reading, kind of loses herself in the stories, same as me, and I thought it might be—"

"A panacea of sorts," Martha sighed.

"Exactly. And while she was busy browsing I—and yes, I know this sounds pathologically narcissistic, so please reserve your judgments for the end—started flipping through a battered copy of _A Rose for Everafter_. Which, I saw, was previously owned by a K. Beckett who had apparently been in attendance at Stanford. And the further I looked through the book, the more I saw—dozens of annotations, underlined passages, insightful comments in the margins."

"In _A Rose for Everafter?"_ Asked Martha incredulously, because, after all, she'd read the book.

"Yeah," he barked out a laugh, "yeah, I know. Of all the books, right? Campy, sensationalized, horrifically melodramatic…apparently it belonged to someone close to her, someone she lost. And in analyzing the text, in dissecting the lines of what was supposedly their favorite book, she was paying homage to their memory."

"And has K. Beckett explained how such a seemingly precious memento ended its days on a dusty shelf?"

"Mistakenly, as a matter of fact," he rushed to explain, unduly feeling the need to defend Kate _in absentia._ "Lost due to the carelessness of someone else. Granted, I didn't know whether or not she was even interested in getting it back until after I'd contacted her, but…suffice to say, she was elated. Said having it back was…that it helped. Assuage the pain of her loss."

His mother was oddly introspective—a woman of many words choosing taciturnity. After a beat of comfortable silence, she tilted her head, gave him an inscrutable look. "And this K. Beckett is…well, what are they to you?"

"A friend," he said simply.

 _Liar._

Martha seemed to think so, too, judging by her disbelieving expression.

"A female friend?"

"Well…yes," he admitted grudgingly, and met Martha's searching gaze boldly, daring her to push back.

"Whom you've never before met?" She forged ahead.

"No, mother, I've never met her. Never spoken to her, either. At least, not face-to-face." He conveniently left out the fact that he'd given her his phone number. "Letters are…well, they're our thing. And it's been refreshing, talking to someone without the imposition of…other factors—no awkward icebreakers, no labels, no physicality to distract from emotional growth, and no playboy reputation to discount."

"Wait," she said sharply, her blue eyes piercing, "Richard, are you telling me K. Beckett doesn't know she's writing to _you_? To the author of the book she loved and lost and regained?"

"Umm…that would…be correct."

Oh, she looked pretty pissed.

"What on earth would possess you to deceive that poor girl?"

"I didn't do it maliciously!" He snapped, marginally stung, "I just…I wanted a little normalcy, mother. I wanted something that started on equal footing! How pretentious would it have sounded, receiving a letter from Rick Castle— _'I found your copy of my book in a secondhand store, and I know you couldn't possibly have meant to discard such a literary treasure, so here, allow me to graciously restore it to your possession'_?"

"But that _is_ what you did, isn't it?" She threw up her hands, eyebrows reaching for her hairline.

"Well, yes…but my intention wasn't…it wasn't self-serving. In returning the book. Or at least, not entirely. I just…mother, there were _hours_ of annotations in that book. And it just…felt like a mistake. That it was there. Everything she wrote was so personal, so unfiltered. And then when I was writing to her, I wanted that for myself, too. Selfishly. I wanted her to see me for _me_. Not the reputed skirt-chaser, not the idiot who stole a police horse in the nude, not the guy who manages to botch every serious relationship, not the wealthy, immature asshat persona the tabloids love to exploit, just…me. Before all the glamour and fame."

His mother's ire was gone, something gentler taking its place. Her eyes were soft and suspiciously glossy, and he swallowed hard, feeling vulnerable beneath her scrutiny. "Well, then. Okay," she murmured pensively.

"Okay?" He repeated, a little disbelieving. _Was that all?_

"Okay. I understand. And I do hope you'll be careful, refrain from hurling yourself headlong into this. I would hate to see you heartbroken. But…I respect your decisions, trust that you know what you're doing in this—despite being clueless in everything else," she teased lightly.

He laughed then, mirthlessly, twisting his mouth grimly, "I appreciate the note of confidence, but I'm not so sure. I think…I may have jumped the gun." At her questioning glance, he continued. "A week ago, she shared with me that her father had ended up in the hospital. A result of—what can only be described—as heartbreaking circumstances. And I…was my usual, gung-ho self. Sent her flowers from Vance, a pricey bar of chocolate, an encouraging note. And my phone number. Which, I think, is where I went wrong. Too much too soon."

"You do tend to overwhelm people, dear," she conceded with a shrug.

"Yes, well…now I'm at a loss. Do I send a note and apologize for being so…overzealous? Or does that seem too high-maintenance? Like I'm hovering, anticipating a quick response when she's dealing with an all-consuming crisis? Do I just wait and let her make the next move? I'm just…I don't—I don't want to mess this up."

Martha regarded him solemnly, heaved a sigh, and rose fluidly to her feet. She came to stand before him and gently placed her hands against his jaw, bracketing his face. It melted something in him, this tenderness, this show of physical affection she so rarely exhibited.

"Either way," she told him quietly, "I think the best approach is an apology. You may not know where you misstepped, _if_ you misstepped, but acknowledging the fact that you have a propensity to jump first and think later may go a long way toward explaining your motives. That you meant to help, not to hurt. That your intention was to offer, and not to pressure.

"Ever since I can remember—starting from your playground days, really—you've taken on the role of protector, willingly volunteered—or forced—your services as a white knight, especially in matters of the heart. But not every woman wants a man to solve her problems for her, to intercede on her behalf. Many times, we prefer someone who is willing to listen patiently, to comfort us if need be, and trust that we are capable of effectively managing our own lives."

She paused, taking just a beat to collect her thoughts, then continued warmly. "So I want to commend you, darling. Because that's what you've done here. You…offered your support, recognized that she was hurting, and then gracefully backed away. Perhaps the phone number was a bit much, but I don't see that scaring her off. At least not permanently. Just…promise to keep that in mind, moving forward. To not be the white knight. Be her friend instead. A faithful presence. Her champion. And she will thank you for it."

 _My God,_ he thought, throat tight with emotion as she folded him into her embrace. He really did love his mother.

* * *

In the end, he decided to send an update. Something to let her know he was thinking of her, and to, yes, selfishly remind her of his existence. Gentle persistence was key, he reasoned, in gaining the trust of his fawn-like friend.

 _Just keep showing up, Rick._

So, that's what he did, dashing off another letter. One he hoped would mollify any anxieties that had issued from his previous note.

 **Dear Kate,**

 **Ever since I gave my letter to that douchey delivery boy, I've been swimming in regret. Regret because I'm fearful I managed to scare you off in the space of what was intended to be a consolatory note. If you ever have need of me, feel free to use my phone number. But please—** _ **please**_ **—don't feel like I'm placing any expectations on you. If you would prefer letter writing to the exclusion of all other forms of communication, consider me amenable! Acquiescent. In the vernacular, I'm down for whatever you want or need. So don't worry you'll offend me or chase me off—I'm here to stay.**

 **How is your father recovering? And what of yourself? I would be remiss if I didn't ask, but please don't feel as though I require a detailed response. So long as I know you're doing okay, I'll be content. You say you're closed off, a bit of an isolationist, and so I hope you've reached out to someone you actually** _ **know.**_ **Not through letters, but out in the big, wide, bustling real world. You're strong and capable, and I have no doubt you're equal to the task of healing in your own strength. But, it helps. Having someone to listen to you, suffer with you. Regardless of how much you tell them relating to your current circumstances—whether it's the surface details alone, or the painful marrow of the situation—the support is healthy. It's good. And I hope you have that in someone.**

 **On my end? Well…where to start?**

 **The professional: I recall mentioning that I deal with books in my line of work—although I'll omit the particulars for the sake of continued anonymity. Today I met with a business associate, and we discussed what has the potential to be an incredibly lucrative opportunity. Highly beneficial from multiple perspectives, this development should thrill me. But I'm less than enthused. Primarily because of how I see it impacting my daughter. In order to secure this deal, I would be forced to spend weeks at a time away from her, and it's…a depressing thought to say the least. Ironically, she's the reason I do what I do—to give her the best, brightest, most dependable life I can. And now, the nature of my job could prevent me from being with her. Go ahead, accuse me of being histrionic, a "helicopter dad", clingy. But I think it's so critical…being there for her. I'm working on an alternative, because right now, that eventuality is simply unacceptable. I may** _ **work**_ **with books, but I** _ **am**_ **a dad, and I'll choose my daughter every time.**

 **The personal: Please don't freak out, but my mother found your stash of letters. She didn't read the contents, but she did see your name on the return address and proceeded to subject me to a thoroughly grueling interrogation. I was pretty tight-lipped in regards to details, but I did share enough to pacify her—how long we'd been corresponding, that you were going through a difficult time, the state of affairs that gave rise to our reciprocal communication, our tentative friendship (?), but little more than that. I sincerely hope this isn't a point of concern for you, and if it is, allow me to preemptively apologize! The last thing I want to do is betray your trust, especially when I know it's so stintingly given.**

 **Beyond those events, nothing else to report! At least nothing pivotal in nature.**

 **Also—given the circumstances surrounding my last missive, the chaos of your life and the massive stress you were under, I didn't bring up your name. But…** _ **Kate.**_ **It suits you. Short for Katherine, I presume? Don't tell me. It's irrelevant. You're Kate, and reading your name…it was like something settled into place. I should have know you would be a Kate—strong but feminine, direct but lyrical, classy but undeniably cool. Thank you for entrusting me with it, your name.**

 **So, at long, long last, I'm elated to finally say…it's a pleasure to meet you, Kate Beckett.**

 **You're in my thoughts.**

 **Alex**

He scanned it for errors, folded it into an envelope, and dropped it in the post box. Hopeful for the first time in days.

* * *

He really was too precipitate, he thought, annoyed with himself. The mail had arrived this afternoon, the very next day, in fact—hot on the heels of his apologetic, explanatory message—and lo and freaking behold, what did he find? A letter. From Kate.

He was an idiot. A panicky fool. But that's what she did to him. Panicked him. Flustered him and enthralled him and consumed his thoughts. He loved it. He hated it.

As soon as he made it back upstairs, he positioned himself on a barstool, propped his elbows on the kitchen island, and hungrily devoured her words.

 _Alex,_

 _Rest assured, I haven't forgotten about you—didn't I promise faithfulness in the closing of my last letter?—I've just been inundated with work. Trying to make up the hours I lost over the course of this past, chaotic week entailed all-nighters, missed meals, and excessive amounts of dry shampoo, which left no time for letter-writing. Until now._

 _At the moment, I'm comfortably ensconced in my favorite easy chair, a Miles Davis' vinyl crackling away, a steaming French press of espresso and a chipped mug in front of me—prime composition conditions. My goal is to write you a response as meaningful and memorable as your previous reply, which was, in a word, moving. And it did help, hearing from you. Knowing somewhere, someone cares, regardless of distance or convenience or the corporeality of the relationship—it helps. So, thank you._

 _And speaking to the nature of our relationship, would you be unduly hurt if we kept our communication to only letters for now? I think I need simplicity and honesty, both, and the letters…well, they provide that in spades._

 _In writing, I have the ability to tap into emotions that prove inaccessible otherwise, emotions that would be too painful, too raw to express verbally. There's an inherent safety in the written word. Spoken words…there's no editing them, no altering what's been uttered. But writing? There's this beautiful dichotomous quality to writing—I can articulate my feelings fully while still having the freedom and safety to adjust, to eliminate, to polish words and phrases. It appeals to the perfectionist in me. And perhaps I'm cowardly, choosing not to call you. But it's not 'no' in perpetuity, it's only a no for now. I promise. I just need a little more…time. To adjust? To commit? I don't know what word applies, don't know how to label…this thing we have. But I like it. Like you. Don't go anywhere, please. Bear with me for just a little longer? And I'll continue writing, continue healing, continue…adjusting._

 _Despite his injuries and issues—which are manifold—my dad is slowly, steadily making improvements. I helped him find a local AA group and set up an appointment with a counselor specializing in substance abuse. And then I backed away. I distanced myself. Because the rest is up to him, and before I put myself out there, make myself vulnerable yet again, I need some sort of…proof of life, so to speak. Which makes it sound as though I'm holding my affections ransom. And maybe I am. Is there anything wrong with that? There have been so many false starts to his recovery and so many consequent relapses, I can no longer trust his claims to sobriety. So I'm…waiting. For him to prove himself, to make good on his promises. To see results. And then maybe,_ _maybe_ _, we can commence rebuilding this thing he shattered. Time will tell._

 _Also, can I just say how impressed I was by the bouquet and chocolate? Historically, I've never been a fan of flowers—primarily because they die, and I find it depressing to throw away something given in love—but yours? It hit all the right notes. Couched in private humor, appealing to my artistic sensibilities, and featuring the most sumptuous peonies I've ever seen. It made me smile, and the chocolate provided a much-needed boost of endorphins. Thank you. For seeking to comfort me remotely._

 _You mentioned a while back that you deal in the book business—which sounds exotic and appealing. What drew you to the industry? Does your profession fulfill you personally the way, I'm certain, you hoped it would? From my earliest memories, I was a self-proclaimed literary enthusiast, and my love of words has only grown with time. Which is why I'm so intrigued by your work! I'm interested to know more, depending on what you feel comfortable sharing. And in return, I'll willingly divulge the particulars of my own profession. Quid pro quo, Rameses._

 _I like this thing we have—labels or no—and I'm grateful to you, for taking a risk where others would not and contacting a total stranger. You're a rarity, you and your letters, in a world of sameness. A bright spot. And I'm grateful._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Kate_

 _P.S_

 _I'm not married. Why would you think I was married? Do I sound married?_

A smile—the genuine, kind that showed teeth and crinkled his eyes—broke over his face as he restored her letter to its envelope. He couldn't seem to stop, in fact. The happiness just _spilled_ out of him, pushing through his seams. Uncontainable. She was, he decided, extraordinary. And phone call or no, she considered him a _rarity_ , a _bright spot,_ and that was enough to sustain him for now. For her, he could wait.

He _would_ wait.

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _Another long one, not as much action as I would have like, and I'm honestly not entirely sure how I feel about it. But here it is, nonetheless.  
_ _Guys, this story is destroying my life_ — _I've never been particularly social to begin with, but this fic has rendered the little that did exist entirely defunct. There is only More Than Words. MTW. Emteedubs. And coffee. So much coffee. Also, apparently someone mentioned MTW on Twitter? That's...very legit. Thank you guys for all the reviews, favorites, and follows, and for supporting this story by continuing to read! I hope you enjoy this update!_

 _For those interested, the actual title of the Renoir painting I referenced is "Bouquet of Flowers in a Green Vase"._

 _Up next...Kate confides in a real world friend and continues her correspondence with Alex._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 : Betrayal**

 _ **Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.**_

* * *

Kate scrutinized her reflection closely in the elevator's reflective panel, taking mental stock of herself. She looked…well, there was no cushioning it. She looked exhausted—eyes ringed in purple, complexion bleached from fatigue, bones jutting sharply from her lackluster appetite. But, weariness aside, she had taken pains with herself today. Today of all days, she needed the security and confidence of impenetrable professionalism—an outer reflection of militant severity she hoped would translate to her snarled emotions. Early this morning, up far before the sun, she had run until her lungs ached, working to burn off the latent anger and overwhelming agitation this latest case had provoked. It hadn't worked, not really, but it had at least blunted the edge of tension. Everything about her was regimented today—a close-fitting black pantsuit, a white blouse crisp with starch, every button fastened. Every crease pressed. She had planned her outfit carefully, purposefully selecting subdued tones and clean lines. There was no softness, no room for emotion or friability. Not even in her clothing choices. Between her father and this case, she was running on fumes, left grasping, aching for stability. Needed consistency. A shred of normalcy.

Which was currently an implausibility, she knew.

So, instead of focusing on the grisly details contained in the file she carried, she honed in on the wisps of hair that had escaped the sleek confines of her bun, smoothing them back with a frown. She could control this small thing—could contain and marshal herself—even if all other aspects of her life were wildly turbulent. Could be compartmentalized, the picture of self-possession. At least from the outside looking in.

The elevator came to a sibilant halt, a tinny chime breaking through her musings as the doors shuddered open, revealing a dismal hallway. She took a moment, just a beat to shore up her defenses, to prepare herself for the conversation to come, and then pushed out into the wash of flickering fluorescents, heels clacking rhythmically against the mottled linoleum. Despite having been to the morgue numerous times, she had yet to grow accustomed to the eerie stillness of the autopsy theater, to the pristine steel of pedestal tables that silently belied their purpose. There was a morbid air in the room, one that always gave rise to brooding thoughts. How many bodies had they cradled? What, she wondered, was the collected sum of lost years, devastated lives, lost hope to which they had borne witness? Fathers, daughters, sons…mothers.

The first autopsy she'd stood in on had been gruesome, a young, single mom, they ultimately discovered—shot point blank through the temple, body left in a field, still fully dressed in her blood-and-brain-flecked sundress. She remembered the meaty crack as ribs yielded to the chest spreader; the strangely bloodless Y-incision; the waxy, immobile shock preserved on her once-pretty features. And she remembered looking on stoically, excusing herself only after the ME stepped away to retrieve the bone saw. The acrid taste of vomit as she was quietly sick behind a dumpster. It was deeply disturbing, witnessing the dismantlement of her corpse. The way the coroner had so perfunctorily stripped the body down to nothing more than a series of medical observations—hastily scribbled notes, numeric measurements, weighing organs in hanging scales with casual indifference. As though they were oranges or pears and not the former constituents of Jane Doe's humanity. Really, that's what had disturbed her…it was dehumanizing. And she understood the irony of the investigative process—that to rectify wrongs, address violations of the very worst nature, it was necessary to perform further violations. Legal, obligatory, medical violations, if they were to make a conviction stick, but…it disturbed her nonetheless.

And perhaps that's why she so appreciated Lanie. Respected her. Despite the innate brutality of autopsies and much of forensic medicine, Lanie did what she could to preserve the dignity of the victim—tried to give them a voice even in death. In the time she had known her, Lanie had never displayed the indifference Kate observed in her first autopsy, wasn't jaded to death and suffering. Maybe that's why they had bonded so quickly—being similarly motivated, both pursuing the same ends. Eager to see justice meted out. Well, that, and she appreciated the woman's keen sense of sarcasm, her predilection for fine wine, and how she seemingly understood Kate's protracted approach to relationships. Yeah, she really did like Lanie. They'd gone out to a charmingly cramped pub a few months back, tentatively sharing bits of themselves over generous glasses of thick, tannic cabernet, and it felt…easy. The conversation had issued smoothly, flowed without awkward breaks or searching pauses. Not having to force the connection, for once, was refreshing.

Since leaving Stanford, she'd lain low, scraped too raw to consider investing in new friendships. The relationships she'd formed at school disintegrated in the fallout of her mother's death and her resultant depression. Though, it wasn't all one sided. To be fair, her self-imposed distance was probably a fairly significant contributor as well. And yes, she had superficial interactions with work colleagues, but she maintained a level of detachment that she knew alienated many of her fellow detectives—declining invitations to join them for post-case beers and burgers, opting out of the precinct barbecues, quietly side-stepping birthday invitations. It's not that she didn't like them. She did. Genuinely. They were generally a great group, both professionally and personally. But…there was only so much she could give of herself. She was already spread so fearfully thin, trying to balance her emotional recovery with her father's issues and growing work responsibilities—to say nothing of the surreptitious investigation into her mother's case. Befriending the detectives at the precinct would entail openness and honesty she didn't feel capable of granting at this juncture. If she lied, they would know, and if she hedged, they would push. Eventualities that both necessitated distance.

But Lanie was none of those things. She was warm without being overbearing, interested while remaining unobtrusive, and just…fiercely likable. Someone Kate could see remaining in her life long-term, with whom she could develop an open, mature friendship.

Eventually, that is. One day. When she wasn't so wounded.

The clack of caster wheels preceding her, Lanie bustled into the autopsy theatre pushing a mortuary cart shrouded in sterile sheets. Coming to the center of the room, she cast a weary glance in Kate's direction. "Hey, girl. Montgomery send you down here?"

Kate bobbed her head once, stiffening as the emetic, cloying scent of decay washed over her, permeating—she knew—her skin, her hair, her previously immaculate clothing. "Yeah, he has me working the Deacon case." There was no need to elaborate judging from Lanie's grimace of understanding. Departmentally, everyone knew about the Deacon case. And everyone viewed it disparately—they wanted it, but they didn't. Nobody wanted to work a child homicide. They indelibly, deeply fucked you over, and no matter the distinction solving a case of this magnitude brought to a law enforcement career, detectives and cops alike avoided investigations such as Deacon's like the plague they were. But preferences aside, Kate heard the gossip, saw the meaningful glances, knew her name was being bandied about as an option for lead detective on this. And whatever Montgomery needed, whatever he asked—after he'd so mercifully turned the other way—she was, and always would be, his man in the storm.

"Sorry," Lanie sighed, and Kate felt her gut clench in response. An ME offering commiserative apologies didn't bode well.

"Well, let me bring you up to speed," she continued, the glossy smear of Vick's salve on her philtrum catching the light as she spoke."The field techs brought in the remains earlier today—five bodies total—but the majority are…they—they don't have enough remaining soft tissue for me to examine them. I alerted the Feds after I got the green light from Montgomery, and they're supposed to fly out some hotshot forensic anthropologist who'll consult on the case. So…we have four, as-of-now-unidentifiable bodies, but Deacon was still fairly intact. He'd only been missing for a total of thirteen days when they found the mass grave, and I—I've done an external examination that yielded some…pretty promising preliminaries."

Swallowing tightly, Lanie rested a gloved hand on the sterile drapes, stared solemnly at Kate. "Kids are…the worst," she paused, then continued, picking up speed as she went. "People—people say that in jest, you know? ' _Kids are the worst!'_ As though children disrupt what's otherwise an ideal life. Like it's one huge joke. But…they—they don't know what they're saying. When they say that. They just don't know _._ "

They stood there woodenly for just a beat, wrapped in silence and their own thoughts. After a moment, Lanie reached into her pocket and offered Kate the tin of mentholated ointment, waiting patiently for Kate to apply the salve beneath her nose.

"You ready?" She asked, voice just above a whisper. Kate's upper lip and eyes burned, her head ached, she already felt nauseous and harrowed and bleak.

"Rip the band-aid, Lanie," she demanded unwaveringly, her gaze steady on the cart, on the blanketed little body.

Slowly, Lanie peeled back the drapes and began to speak, her voice a soothing murmur in the silence of the morgue, and Kate found a strange comfort in the clinical language she used. "Today's date is July 14, 2003, the time is 1100 hours. Body appears to be that of James Arthur Deacon, caucasian male, age—five years. Identification will remain inconclusive until cranial x-rays can be compared against preexisting dental records. External examination revealed what appears to be perimortem bruising on the tissue of the neck, which suggests manual strangulation. Based on the state of decomposition, the use of quick lime as a preservative, and the cadaver's interment in the ground, I estimate the time of death to have taken place approximately six days prior, though further examination is required to ascertain the exact TOD. I've catalogued a number of lacerations and what appear to be…"

* * *

By the time Lanie had concluded her verbal brief, Kate's jaw was clenched so tightly her molars creaked in protest and the muscles beneath her mandible ached from the tension. With hot, gritty eyes, she watched the ME wheel the body back into the cold chamber before dropping her gaze to the notes she'd furiously scrawled on a legal pad, but the words swam indiscernibly on the yellow page. _Goddamnit_ , she winced, roughly jerking to face the opposite wall _._ He'd just been…so impossibly small. And alone. And the thought of those final moments marked by terror, the painful clutch of calloused hands encircling his soft neck, left a bitter, coppery taste in her mouth—so like blood it made her want to vomit. Dazedly, she put a trembling hand to her forehead, utterly overwhelmed, entirely out of her depth.

So much rode on this—there was no latitude here, no margin for error. One misstep and the whole case was defunct. And—provided they even found him—a killer walked free.

Shudderingly, she pulled a breath in through her nose and slowly released it, repeating the pattern until her pulse slowed, her thoughts stopped racing. From behind her, she heard the dull thump of Lanie's palms against the door, the rustle of her blue scrubs as she pushed into the room.

"Tell me something good," she entreated, coming to stand next to Kate, her voice thick and tremulous. "Because all…all I have seen today is broken little bodies. So—so I need to think about something else. Something good."

For a moment, they both just _stood_ there, staring dully at the blank wall in front of them as she sifted through thoughts, considered her options, deliberated over what to share.

 _Alex,_ she conceded internally. _As if that's even up for dispute, Kate._

His newest letter—not his premature apology, but the one in response to her delayed reply—sat folded in her blazer's interior pocket, still unopened, its paper edges brushing against her ribs. She…she could open up to Lanie about this. Could follow Alex's advice and confide in others. Be real. And it was something _good_ —them, the letter. Alex. He was good.

"I've been talking to someone," she admitted, the words out before she'd consciously decided to even speak them.

Peripherally, she saw the ME turn to regard her. Surprisingly, felt her own lips pull up in the beginnings of a smile. Not quite, but close. Because she could all but _feel_ the force of Lanie's cautious glee, the smirk that rounded the apples of her cheeks. "Katherine Becket," she drawled smugly, impressed, " _talking_ to someone. I never."

"Geez. I appreciate your vote of confidence," Kate snorted wryly, "but, you're actually…" she paused, debated telling her for just a moment, and then forged ahead. _In for a penny…_ "You're not…wrong. I've…never actually… _talked_ to him. Not in person."

"Girl, you been calling 900 numbers?" She gasped, scandalized.

"What? No! Jesus, Lanie, nothing quite so pathetic—or disgusting—as that, I…he found an old book of mine in a secondhand store. One I…misplaced a while back. A few years ago, at least. I'd marked it up—notes in the margins, dozens of annotations, and he managed to track me down. Returned the book to me along with a letter and…we—we've been…talking," she finished lamely, cutting her eyes over to find Lanie scrutinizing her openly.

"And?"

"And what?" She frowned.

"And _what?"_ Lanie exclaimed, flinging her hands outward in exasperation. "And what does it _mean_ , Kate? How long have you two been exchanging letters? How long do you plan to keep this up? How do you feel about this mysteriously altruistic stranger?"

Were those questions that required an immediate answer? What was with the third degree?

She must have looked panicked—or affronted—because Lanie beat a nominal retreat, contented herself with arching an eyebrow meaningfully. "Sorry. I'm just…you took me by surprise. And it doesn't seem like you! Carrying on with a virtual stranger. You're a homicide detective, witness to a sweeping gamut of deception and the resulting consequences of misplaced trust, and you're telling me you're okay with…this? _Not_ judging, just…curious."

"He's not a 'virtual stranger', Lane, he's…Alex. He's intelligent and witty, has a vocabulary that exceeds mine—"

"Well, that recommendation in and of itself is high praise," she digressed teasingly.

"And the way he writes is…I think it's good for me. When we write, there's nothing between us, nothing to cloud the air. It's just raw thoughts and uncensored feeling, and I…I've never been accused of oversharing. Never been very communicative, in fact. At least not verbally. But writing is…a safer vehicle for me."

"You can hide behind the paper until you know he's safe," she interpreted thoughtfully.

"Maybe. Maybe so. His first letter arrived in June, on the nineteenth," Kate murmured pensively, "and I wrote him back the same day. The interchange has remained pretty consistent since then, and I don't…I don't plan on stopping this—this thing. Our correspondence. At least not in the foreseeable future. He's…well, if it's a friendship, it's a strange one. But that's the most accurate designator I know to describe our relationship. It's a friendship. Quirky. And maybe it's a little outlandish—or a lot outlandish—but it's…easy and I'm enjoying this slow revelation of his personality, his character. Being privy to the inner workings of his mind, appreciating just how poetic his thoughts are…it's—it's good for me. Healing. To talk and be so fully understood. It's….good for me."

"So I see," Lanie agreed, her dark eyes knowing. "And…do you ever plan on _actually_ meeting this paragon of virtue? Or will you be like Catherine the Great and Voltaire? Exchanging letters but never crossing paths?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead, to be honest," she admitted, studying the folds of her knuckles, the ridges of her phalanges. "There's so much going on with me right now, so much uncertainty—even with Alex, who is, tragically, the most stable facet of my life at present—that to try and map out this relationship would…exhaust me. Or…maybe not exhaust me, I'm already exhausted. Confuse me? Panic me unduly? I don't know what the exact result would be, but I do know that trying to govern this or anticipate where it will eventually lead would change its very nature. Alex says its fate, I say it's a serendipitous coincidence, but it all comes down to probability and chance. What are the odds that he would pick up my book, proceed to search for me, _find_ me, and take the time and effort to reach out? It's just…"

"Magic," Lainie sighed.

The realist in Kate balked at her assessment, but the silence that had fallen over the room was peaceful, the undercurrent of despair finally relegated to the background. So she merely hummed in response, exchanging a small conspiratorial smile with the ME.

Wordlessly, Lainie reached out a needful, talcum-coated hand, gripping her own tightly, and Kate stared at their interlaced fingers until the contrast of their skin blurred to sameness.

* * *

She managed to hold it together until she left the morgue, striding purposefully, briskly to the records department. Everything in her was curling tighter and tighter, emotion crawling perilously up her throat, demanding a release. Eyes stinging, breath jagged, she somehow managed to find a storage closet, abruptly sweeping into it, wedging the handle with a broomstick. And then she allowed herself to quietly unravel. Seated on a galvanized bucket, forehead pressed tight against the points of her knees, she cried, hating the helplessness, the fear this case triggered. Yeah, she…she was afraid. Terrified of screwing up this investigation. More than that, of not operating efficiently—of losing time, costing lives. _Failing._ Of accruing more tiny bodies.

Blessedly, her breakdown was short-lived, rapidly running its course, leaving her pensive and drained. It was just enough to take the cutting edge off the grief that tangled in her chest.

It seemed as though, she reflected dully, that all she ever did lately was cry. Over her mother, her father, her work. _Everything._ Everything weight so heavily. And she did what she could to provide herself an outlet, allow herself the relief of spent tears. But only in isolation. Only on her own.

Even with Lanie, she felt the need to conceal, to suppress. To remain unyielding beneath the pressures of the job. To exhibit unremitting, unflappable strength in the face of even the darkest cases. Most of the time, she succeeded. But kids were…they were the exception.

 _You don't have to be strong with Alex,_ she reminded herself, extracting the letter from her pocket. The crisp paper had softened, warmed from her body heat, and she mindlessly rubbed her thumb across the velvety surface of the vellum—his words, her talisman. And really, that's what she should have told Lanie, offered the knowledge up as a palliative for the ME's concern. Should have said that his words made picket fences of her towering walls. That he inspired a greater measure of transparency than she'd ever expected herself capable of ceding. That she didn't have to throw up an unaffected front.

That she didn't have to be strong. Not with him.

Gingerly, she slipped a finger beneath the envelope's flap, breaking the seal. And then, hunched over her knees, she struggled to make out his words by the feeble light of a single bulb.

 **Lovely Kate,**

 **Customarily not florally incline. Got it. But I'm gratified to know you enjoyed the bouquet! Or, Renoir is, at any rate. In the spirit of inquiry, what would you prefer in lieu of flowers? Generally speaking. I promise not to send you any further unexpected deliveries! I hope you know, too—or that your father has expressed—what an incredible daughter you are. To support him, assist him through such a destructive condition goes above and beyond conventional familial responsibility. It's sacrifice born of love, and given at great personal cost. If he hasn't acknowledged it to date, rest assured he will. One day. But I see it, I see you, I see your loyalty, and I marvel.**

 **Speaking to your postscript—it's not that you sound matronly or housewifey! Far from it. Your writing is youthful. Spritely, really. Rather, I want to ensure I won't have an irate husband beating down my door. Our letters aren't amorous by any extent of the imagination, but they** _ **do**_ **have my return address. And…well, I wouldn't want to be a relational impediment. So there. That's my rationale for the inquiry!**

 **As is clear by now—for you've certainly received my frantic follow-up—I'm a hasty, presumptive sort. And I apologize for that. For my perceived lack of confidence in your promised faithfulness. But just to clarify, my doubt didn't stem from any mistrust on the part of your character—your words and musings are unequivocally bursting with integrity and substance, so rest assured,** _ **it's not you**_ **. It's…uncertainty spawned from my own insecurities, my chronicled shortcomings. The fear that—as per usual—I'd moved too fast, pushed too hard, scared you off. Since, as we've already covered, I'm hasty. And presumptive. A singularly winning combination, I know. All that being said, is it conceivable you might…benevolently disregard this entire debacle? Overlook the letters that reek of desperation and the foisted phone number and continue on as before? I sincerely hope so. You said in your last letter that you assigned significant meaning to this exchange, that it was a bright spot, and I hope you're aware by now that the sentiment is reciprocal. To lose contact with you would be…distressing, to say the least. Especially if the fault of its dissolution lay with me. So, there you have it. I'll just…leave that there.**

 **Which leads me to an awkwardly jarring non sequitur in which I expound on the details of my life…**

 **Like you, my love affair with literature has been lifelong, influencing every aspect of my solitary childhood, my tumultuous adolescence, and determining the trajectory of my adulthood. Novels provided a much needed escape from reality, and between the pages of dusty classics, cult favorites, and works du jour, I discovered inclusive, miraculous, alternate worlds. And I wanted to be a part of that magic. As far as particulars, I'll take a page from your book—pun intended—and remain inexplicit, but I feel as though this topic acts as a preamble for something I've been meaning to discuss.**

 **In my line of work, I've done well for myself. Well enough, in fact, to have gained significant notability in the book community. At the risk of sounding horrifyingly egocentric, I'm considered something of a b-list celebrity—my name recognizable, my reputation just this side of notorious. Which brings me to my confession, though I'd like to preface this with a supplication—please,** _ **please**_ **don't feel too betrayed? The name I gave you—R. Alex Rodgers—is my given name, one I left behind in my freshman year of college, choosing to legally take on instead an appellation I deemed more charismatic. More glamorous. More representative of the renown I so desired. Alex Rodgers was…gawky, uncouth, and overeager. Penniless. Obscure. An amalgamation of traits and shortcomings I found contemptible. And so, I remade myself. Beginning with my name, my elective transformation soon extended to nearly every aspect of my personality. I metamorphosed from sincerity to affectation, from uncertainty to arrogance, from devotion to philandering—over the years I slowly, steadily became someone I no longer recognized. And I've been…trying to regain my sense of self ever since. Mawkish as it sounds, trying to find Alex Rodgers.**

 **Stumbling across your book presented a unique opportunity to do exactly that, to be** _ **that guy**_ **again. The kind of man who reaches out to strangers, who is selfless, thoughtful, authentic. Who doesn't second-guess benevolence. Doesn't view every act of kindness through a cynical lens. Spanning my first inquiry to this present letter, I've seen a shift take place within myself. In the best way possible. I've seen the reemergence of qualities I thought I had permanently abandoned along with my name, but you and your words, they…reanimated me. That being said, I am sorry for my dissemblance. Truly. And to ask for your forgiveness in this matter verges on assholery of the greatest magnitude, I am aware, so I'll simply leave you with my profound apologies and deep-seated regrets. If I've wounded you—you of all people—please be aware that I despise myself for it, and I long to make it right. Regardless of how you choose to proceed—whether my dishonesty proves unpardonable, or you find the grace to look past it—you deserve to know the impact you've unwittingly made on my life. How you've made me want to be better, be more. And how deeply, staggeringly grateful I am to have had the privilege of meeting you, Kate Beckett.**

 **Alex**

What...what the hell?

Don't feel _betrayed_? She felt _exactly_ that. She'd given him her name, the meat of her pain, dark details of her past. And he'd told her… _what_ , exactly? A memory of the kid he'd been, a profile of the man he wanted to be? Groaning, she dropped her head back to her knees, let the seething mortification wash over her in hot, pink blooms—her face, her neck, her chest awash in the shame of misappropriated trust. She allowed herself the self-indulgence of wallowing for the space of ten soothing breaths, and then pulled herself together, rose to her feet. Further deliberation would have to wait. Montgomery would be looking for her, expecting a report, she knew, and she'd already been absent from the bullpen far longer than intended. So she smoothed her rumpled clothing, pressed cool fingers to her feverish cheeks, checked her chaotic thoughts, and, shoving the letter back into her pocket, fled the refuge of the closet.

* * *

When she reappeared on the precinct floor, Montgomery beckoned her from beyond his office window, wordlessly directing her toward a sticky vinyl chair with a curt gesture. Glancing at her in acknowledgement, phone receiver wedged against his ear, he hummed a nonverbal response to whoever was on the other line, listened intently, and finally ended the call with a brisk, "Great. See you in a few."

Hanging up the phone, he turned to Beckett with a heavy sigh. "What did Dr. Parish have to say about the Deacon case?"

"She finished her preliminary examination of the body and is scheduled to perform the autopsy this afternoon," she recited, finding reassurance in the dry terminology. "Initial inspection of Deacon revealed evidence of manual strangulation, and put the estimated TOD around June 8th, though Dr. Parish will have to perform further tests to confirm."

"James Deacon disappeared from a playground on the second of this month," he murmured wearily, "which means he was held for more than a week prior to his death…"

They both sat in silence for a moment, allowing the magnitude of that statement to settle around them.

"Any signs of sexual trauma?" Montgomery finally ventured, and Kate suppressed a consequent wince.

"Not externally. But if he was assaulted, the autopsy should reveal evidence of that." Her voice as she related the information was quiet, subdued, at odds with the tight anxiety in her stomach.

"Anything else?"

"Yes," she continued, "we…contacted the parents. They're on their way down to the precinct right now. Should be arriving momentarily."

"And you'll…" he led meaningfully, tilting his head toward her.

"Yes sir, I'll speak with them. With your approval, that is."

He gave a little grunt of agreement, studied her with troubled eyes, leaned across his desk. "I think you know you're in the running for acting lead here, Beckett. You've done good work in the time you've been with the twelfth, astonishingly good work. Thorough, insightful—like I said before, you're an asset to any team of which you're a part. Coincidentally, our senior detectives are all wrapped up in preexistent cases, just as urgent and time-sensitive as Deacon's. They have neither the time, nor particular inclination, to seize control of what's liable to be a consummate shit storm. In combination, these factors designate you as the most suitable frontrunner for lead detective."

"Are you…is this your formal request?" She asked, incredulous despite the rumors. Because even though she'd heard the talk, that's all it was—a transient thought, uttered and forgotten. She was a rookie. Exceptional at her job, but a rookie all the same. And this was substantive, momentous. A decision with far-reaching consequences, ones that would, in all likelihood, govern the directionality of her career. Poised her for distinction.

"It is," he acceded gravely.

After a collective pause, she met his gaze firmly, frankly and nodded once. "Then I accept."

"I was hoping you'd say that," he admitted, gave her a dim smile of relief, "especially because the Feds are about to roll in, and once they do, we're gonna have one hell of a dispute if we decide to hold on to this case. They love to muscle their way in, thrive on the publicity and notoriety of cases like Deacon's. And I need someone with tenacity, a fighter's mentality, and sound judgment. Someone like you, who works to bring justice to the victims and doesn't view this case with mercenary eyes—doesn't use it to garner media attention or departmental exposure. If you need anything, you come to me, understand?"

Kate bobbed her head in response, wanted to tell him she wouldn't let him down, that she would pour every personal resource into this case, into securing a conviction. But a knock at the door shattered the moment, reoriented their combined attentions.

"Come in," Montgomery called, and a suit strode through the door, emanating a cool, unflappable confidence. He came to a stop in front of the captain's desk and his gaze swept over her once—bold, evaluative—before turning and extending a calloused hand to Roy.

"Will Sorenson, FBI."

* * *

On the train home, she'd been so positively fried it had been a struggle not to drift off, lulled by the rhythmic clatter of the rails and the stale stillness in the car. But now that she was home, she wasn't tired, she was furious. All day, she'd consciously marshaled her thoughts, refusing to dwell on Alex's letter. Or whatever his fucking name was. It just…ate at her. That she of all people—isolated, secretive, guarded, removed—had willingly divulged intimate pieces of herself, believing the conversation to be reciprocal in nature, only to find that he'd lied from the beginning? Sorry, Alex. But I do. Feel betrayed, that is.

And duped. Like the idiot she was.

But really, had that been his motive? To lead her on, deceive her? Or were the lies simply a consequent byproduct of starting fresh, like he claimed? Merely an effort to remake himself? He'd seemed so sincere, and his persistence recommended him, but… _god_ , it was so confusing. Reflection was a near impossibility, her mind a furious muddle—thoughts of her father, this case, Alex's duplicity…

In all honesty, she didn't know. Didn't know _anything_ anymore. And she was too overwhelmed, hurt, and sleep-deprived to try and decipher his intentions, much less evaluate her feelings on the matter. Instead, she stripped down to her underwear and crawled between the crisp cotton of her sheets, aching in body and spirit. Wanting to lose herself in sleep and, at least in dreams, forget.

Wanting, paradoxically, to write her pain into a letter.

Wanting nothing more than to talk to Alex.

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _Kate is angst personified, you know? This chapter ended up being far darker than I originally intended. More painful, too. I always got the sense that the unspecified case Beckett worked with Sorenson shaped her as a detective, and I'd like to explore that in conjunction with the letter-writing angle. Hence James Deacon.  
_ _Additionally, I'm interested to know if Kate's response to Rick's deception reads well. She's emotionally vulnerable at this point in her life_ — _deeply, so I assume_ — _and a perceived betrayal coming from a trusted intimate could potentially produce a reaction like the one portrayed_ _. Don't worry, though! I'll make it better. Promise._

 _As always, thank you for your reviews, favorites, and follows! You guys are amazing._

 _Up Next...Rick persistently writes Kate but receives no reply, confides in a friend, and encounters a mysteriously beautiful stranger._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 : Revelation**

 _ **Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.**_

* * *

Following his confession, Rick had made a resolution. To write her faithfully every day, each letter by it's inherent nature a reminder of his existence, his perseverance, his trustworthiness. Well, that last trait was, he knew, decidedly specious. He also knew he should have come clean on all counts—should have revealed not only his deception, but his legal name as well. Though selfishly, he was glad that to a limited extent he refrained, opted to break it to her by degrees. Judging from the glacial silence on her side, telling her collectively would have been an even more significant misstep than the one he'd already made.

Every morning, he pulled himself from the alluring cocoon of his down comforter a full thirty minutes early, time he allocated to crafting Kate's letters. They followed a pattern with invariable predictability—a compendious apology followed by a lengthy personal discourse detailing a secret. A dark memory he'd, until now, relegated to the back of his mind. If she felt betrayed, as he surmised she did, he wanted to try and level the playing field. Recalibrate the relational dynamics so they were on equal footing. And if fixing what was broken between them meant disclosing private affairs he thought would never see the light of day, he was willing. More than prepared to do that for her. To peel back layers of himself for her inspection. If like inspired like, he hoped his honesty would draw out her own show of faith—would prompt her to reinitiate contact.

Because not hearing from her, not knowing the extent of the damage he'd inflicted? It was killing him. Whatever it took to reaffirm his constancy, his honesty to her? He would do it. No questions asked. All he wanted was to reel back the weeks, days, hours to their time in the Hamptons and that initial letter and his moment of misguided self-preservation. But he couldn't. So in lieu of changing the course of history, he wrote. Letters upon letters upon letters. If he wrecked this with his words, he would fix it with his words as well. He was nothing if not resourceful.

Seven days had passed since he anxiously dropped his revelatory letter in the post. Preempting her reaction to his news, he wrote another the very next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Letters _ad nauseum_. They weren't overlong—minus the repetition of his apology, that is. Most didn't even exceed a page. But they all contained something closely held, something rare and principally unvoiced, even if not all intrinsically _profound_ in nature.

Six secrets, so far. Six chances to remedy this. Time would tell.

* * *

 _July 10, 2003_

 **Kate,**

 **Honestly, after the receipt of my last letter, I harbor doubts you'll even open this one much less read it. But as evidenced by my—what I fear you will perceive as—malicious deception, my judgment could clearly use some work. So here's hoping you prove me wrong. You've been surprising me since your first letter, extraordinary woman that you are, and I expect no less from you moving forward.**

 **If you're as hurt by my confession as I'm anticipating, I need to make it right, need to mend the brokenness I inflicted, and I find my reparative options to be…limited at best. I damaged this relationship through secrecy, and if you'll allow it, I'd like to restore it through honesty. Through raw divulgences. If you've found it in you to read this far, thank you. And please,** _ **please**_ **soldier on a little longer. Let me try to fix this. Fix us the best way I know how—with a story.**

 _One…_

 **Her name was…well, for the sake of her anonymity, I'll prune it down to initials only—her name was K.B. and I met her my sophomore year at NYU in the reference section of the library. She was wearing Chanel No. 5, pearl earrings, and an air of self-certainty that drew me in magnetically—she was everything I wanted to be, the physical manifestation of my aspirations for success, and…infinitely more. Witty, passionate, glamorous, brilliant, and challenging…falling for her was simple, natural. Our days were spent holed up in drafty cafes and musty bookstores, discussing fine literature and foreign culture; picnicking on egg sandwiches and cheap wine in the foliage of Washington Square Park; nights spent nominally studying and drinking massive quantities of hot cocoa. Trying, and mostly succeeding, to integrate the inclinations and abilities of people from two very different worlds. If she was Cinderella, I was certainly the stable boy. But despite the glaring differences between us, things were playing out beautifully. In the equalizing environs of college life, it was easy to disregard her familial affluence, that she came from something very like American nobility while I was as meritocratic as they came and penniless to boot.**

 **That is, until the night we met her parents at** _ **La Grenouille**_ **, an opulent French venue for which I had carefully set aside funds. At more than a hundred dollars a plate, a simple entree on my student budget—sans wine, mind you—would restrict my meals to ramen and eggs for the week to come. A sacrifice willingly given, but which my pride dictated I conceal from her. There was more cutlery, flatware, and hollowware than I had ever conceived existed, much less knew how to wield; my knowledge of table manners was limited to placing the fine linen napkin in my lap and chewing with my mouth closed; and I boasted a far greater fluency in Klingon than French. In short, the night was destined to be an unmitigated disaster.**

 **Uncomfortable and leagues out of my depth, I pulled out all the stops, engaged every personal coping mechanism in my arsenal, and came off as pretentious. Arrogant. An ass of the first water. Retrospectively I think that night marked the beginning of the end for our previously effortless relationship. K.B. was furious, humiliated, and based on the events of the night, her parents despised me. Rightfully so, though of the two, her mother's reasons bore more substance. She felt my character to be lacking while Mr. B's primary concern was my destitute financial state. We tried to make a go of it, despite their obvious disapproval, did what we could to meet in the middle, to assimilate worlds. But we only succeeded in slowly growing farther apart, developing more resentments. Our differences were too significant at the time, it felt—magnified by her parents' constant condemnation—and we were too young to know how to fix it.**

 **When she told me she was leaving, moving to England, needed her space, it was oddly relieving. Freeing. So much so, I felt guilty. She left for the airport in the middle of a rainstorm, and there was a moment when everything in me surged forward, urging me to chase down the town car, to go after her despite our problems and her parents' antagonism. To pursue her. But I didn't. Was I seeing it—our fractured relationship—through realistic eyes, or was I simply too fearful, too apathetic to try? There's a part of me that wonders even now, late at night when sleep eludes me, if I missed out on the great love of my life. To talk about her, to think of those final moments, is to resurrect deep regret, unremitting disquiet, and this soft, deep pain from…missing her still. Or at the very least, the lovely idea of her.**

 **I never talk about K.B. Not even to my mother, with whom I discuss everything. But I feel as though this is…pertinent. You should know about it. About her. And how it changed me.**

 **Also—though maybe I shouldn't draw attention to such an inconsequential aberration—I find it rather mystifyingly auspicious…your name, her name. Both of you, K.B. Both remarkable. Both wounded at my hand. I made the wrong choice, not following K.B. to England, not pursuing her, mending her. I severely miscalculated, I know that now. But with you, Kate, I refuse to replicate past events. You, this, us—it's come to mean too much for me to mutely bow out. To go quietly into the night. In this, I'm electing to do what I should have done nine years ago—vowing to unfailingly, unflaggingly** _ **show up**_ **.**

He had signed off using his alter ego, wincing a little as he did. Wondering if she would take offense at the false name, if it would compound her irascibility. But that's who he was to her, and he just…didn't feel ready to be _Castle_ yet. If she sought an answer, asked him right out who he was, he'd resolved to tell her, of course. But volunteer it? Not yet. Not now.

One secret at a time.

* * *

As with his prior missive, he launched into an apology that bled slowly into a story. A secret to tempt dispensation and contact from Kate.

 _July 11, 2003_

 _Two…_

 **Getting over K.B.—or limping around her, rather—involved a substantial number of parties, many bottles of tequila, horrifically squandered funds, and a succession of warm bodies to fill the void. It's not a time on which I care to dwell or regard with any nostalgia. I was struggling to find my footing again in the wake of K.B.'s absence and the despondency of shattered first love, and my coping skills were fledgling at best. So I self-medicated, hoping to find something approaching solace, but acquiring instead only more regrets.**

 **It was in this vulnerable state that I made the acquaintance of a vivacious, flighty redhead who would, unbeknownst to me utterly alter the misguided course of my existence. M.H.—again, for privacy's sake, I'm opting for the exclusive use of initials—swept me off my feet with all the destructive force of a category five hurricane. Literally and figuratively. When I first encountered her at some vampy, rave-like party, on the cusp of an epileptic fit from the liberal use of strobe lighting, I was off-balance from K.B.'s unpleasant departure and an excessive number of shots. M.H. was all ebullience and flirtation, a bewitching distraction from my regrets, and when she drunkenly collided with me at that soiree it set into motion a rapid cascade of events, all culminating in an impetuous, shotgun-style wedding. Five months later, I held my daughter for the first time. And serenaded by her warbling cries, unconfidently cradling her featherlight weight, I felt my fragmented pieces slip neatly into place. In the space of a moment, I fell passionately, irrevocably, profoundly in love; realized for the first time home was a person, not a location. Everything had changed. I was a father, and that designation gave new meaning to my life.**

 **My career afforded me the freedom to act as her primary caretaker, a role which was as cherished as it was requisite. M.H., for all her outward charms, was about as maternal as a cactus, more focused on her professional pursuits than the trivialities of motherhood. Feedings, diapers, colic, sleepless nights—all facets of childcare she firmly, wordlessly conferred to me. "They just aren't my thing" she inarguably rationalized when pressed, seemingly confounded by my anger. Perhaps** _ **flippant**_ **is the best way to describe her approach to parenting. She didn't intend to be negligent, wasn't willfully cruel, she was simply exceptionally selfish. And I would be lying if I said it didn't wear on me, that I didn't grow resentful toward her, passively inattentive as a husband in response to her absences and thoughtlessness. As the months wore on, what began as a passionate union devolved into a marriage in name alone, mutually bound only by our child and our reciprocal avoidance of one another.**

 **I shouldn't have been surprised by what followed. Though, in what is a compelling testimony to my egotism, I was. Unexpectedly, my daughter and I returned from what I had intended to be a daylong outing, but a vomiting child dampens even the most enjoyable of trips. Shocking, I know. Covered in my daughter's breakfast, I made for my bedroom to change, bewildered by the trail of clothing that preceded me. Stupidly, I assumed M.H. was in the midst of doing laundry, although that would have been an extraordinary first for her. At the time, laundry was the only rationale my mind could conjure up, and when I stumbled into our master suite, all I could do was dumbly look on as my wife and her hard-bodied colleague writhed, moaned, twisted on our California King. Naked. I consider myself a fairly pacifistic man, generally not given to fits of anger or surges of temper, but after witnessing that…it was arguably the closest to real violence I've ever come. I was bellowing, my wife couldn't stop sobbing, and my daughter wailed piteously from the room beyond, trussed up in her costly stroller. Once she was capable of forming intelligible words, she quietly informed me she was leaving, wanted to go to Malibu to pursue her dreams, that this marriage had been a mistake. The next day, she was on a plane, and I was acclimatizing to a new normal—life as a truly single parent.**

 **Infidelity is insidious. Having been on the receiving end of unfaithfulness, I can say with confidence that it has colored every relationship since. That** _ **once burned twice shy**_ **adage isn't merely a hackneyed aphorism, it's an accurate prediction of the fallout from betrayal. Entrusting myself, my heart wholly to others has proven problematic at best. Relationship-ending at worst. I've found it far easier to invest in superficial romances maintained through costly gifts and lavish outings, which fill the time, patch the wound, but don't come close to touching my closeted loneliness.**

 **I understand betrayal, I do. And being well-acquainted with the consequent pain, I hope you know how sorry I am for my unintentional disloyalty.**

 **Be well, Kate.**

* * *

His next divulgence was brief, almost to the point of abruptness, his earnest sentiments requiring no further adornment

 _July 12, 2003_

 _Three…_

 **My greatest fear is failing my greatest gift—my daughter. If my career foundered, if my accounts ran dry, if my assets were seized, if my prominence withered, I would survive it. Survive the loss, survive the defeat. But my daughter? Inadequacy is unthinkable. As a single father, I've been forced to feel my way, and despite my best intentions, I feel laughably incompetent. inferior. Fraudulent, even. Especially in comparison to other, unabridged nuclear families with conventional fathers. Often, I feel this. Attending a prestigious academic institution, enrolled in a miscellany of private lessons, given all the advantages my money can afford, I like to think I've provided well for my daughter—but what the hell do I know? My upbringing was scattered, turbulent, far from ideal. Even grown and employed, I'm little more than carefully organized chaos. I'm a mess. And I'm raising a child. And I feel…unfit. Like she deserves more than what I'm capable of giving. More than I know** _ **what**_ **to give or** _ **how**_ **to give. And the doubt is constant. This quietly obtrusive thought, a prickling fear that dwells in every decision—** _ **what if you fail her?**_

* * *

 _July 13, 2003_

 _Four…_

 **Growing up, I always envied my classmates the predictability of their lives. The casual references they made to family outings, homemade dinners, and routine chores held an exotic appeal for me, but nothing beguiled quite so completely as the concept of fathers. Vague, mysterious, capable of amazing feats such as fixing leaky pipes and inoperative vehicles—I filled many boyhood hours fantasizing sensational scenarios in which I, at long last, met my absent father. Most of them involving espionage, the CIA, and spectacular gunfights, of course. But from what my mother has divulged—and granted, it's not much—he's likely none of the things I anticipated or craved as a child.**

 **Over the years, I came to terms with my ignorance on the subject, and now…now I think I prefer that he remain in obscurity. My life is settled in a way that might not allow for such a principal familial addition. And at this point, I think it might be** _ **more**_ **painful, knowing the truth. If I allow myself to dwell on the matter, I can't help but speculate wildly. Does he know I even exist? And if he does, why hasn't he initiated contact? Does he have a family of his own? Perhaps he has no desire to meet me. Knowing the man, seeing the life he led apart from me, potentially meeting half-siblings with memories and privileges that should have also been mine, should have been shared…it doesn't seem pleasant. Isn't something I want. There are fleeting moments of curiosity that overtake me, but not enough to trigger an active search. Not enough to rattle the quasi-stability of our lives as they are at present. And does that hesitation, I wonder, make me self-reliant? Or merely a coward?**

 **These. These are the reflections that plague me. Questions to which I incongruously both seek and fear answers—which admittedly makes them little more than stagnant thoughts, I know. I want to know my father. I fear who he is. I dread how the knowledge might change me.**

 **What** _ **do**_ **I want? Honestly, I'm not certain.**

* * *

 _July 14, 2003_

 _Five…_

 **An absent, nameless father wasn't the only peculiarity I encountered in my childhood. The nature of my mother's profession—in addition to single-parenthood—required a nanny. Or in my case. a long string of tipsy, inattentive women more interested in finding a soft spot to sleep than monitoring a small child. I'm not quite certain about the details of my mother's vetting process, have never asked for elaboration in fact. But if I had to hazard a guess I would speculate they met at a bar over martinis and any resulting camaraderie was seen as proof enough of their competence for childcare. Which…I realize sounds harsh, bitter. Being a single parent, I know personally how overwhelmingly involved, frighteningly difficult it is to raise a child alone. Having said that, I was also the neglected charge, and the idea of history repeating itself, the idea of entrusting my daughter's well-being to an individual that might or might not be good, might or might not do their job well…I refused. Because I know firsthand. That's not to say my nannies were malicious, they were merely careless, but I don't want that for my daughter.**

 **My first nanny was named Tilda. She was British, originally from Shropshire, and given to a steady diet of gin and tonic. Despite all that, she was kind, fairly affable, and tolerant of my hyperactivity. She slept quite a bit, occasionally suffered from crying jags, but I don't remember much beyond that. When I was five, she left to become a secretary, or so I'm told, and Kim took her place. Beautiful Kim attended art school, gravitating toward works requiring bizarre additions such as babydoll heads, sharp objects, and broken glass. What began as a trip to the zoo or museum often reorganized itself to allow for impromptu dumpster diving. Mostly Kim performed the dirty work, although if the dumpster was deemed too high or too small, I was a defensible substitute. When I mentioned the adventurous new pastime to my mother, Kim was whisked away and Gloria arrived a few short days later. Gloria was arguably my favorite nanny, though the bar was never high to begin with. She didn't drink, or at least not to my knowledge, enjoyed knitting me ghastly excuses for sweaters, and most of all, loved taking me to the public library where I was free to explore while she snored quietly in a club chair. Books, I learned quickly, were a thrilling, sweeping escape. Physically bound to a single room, hemmed in by shelves and walls and ceilings and controlling nannies, I could slip into another world unreproved, could be anyone I wanted, go where I pleased. It was a liberating discovery, and the library soon became my oasis of choice. A child who was incapable of remaining still for anything else, my mother always expressed disbelief at my focus, my ability to read for hours without pause, even electively disregarding meals for something I saw as more substantive.**

 **I've been on dates before where the question arose—** _ **"What's your favorite place in the world?"**_

 **And I've never given an honest response. Not once. Because I predicted confusion on their part at the very least, or worse yet, dismissal. But I think you understand the inherent value of books, the unearthly otherness ingrained in some words, characters, stories. How they transport you somewhere better than you presently are—mentally, physically, emotionally. They distract, but they also instruct, teaching hard truths, revealing facets of humanity integral to maturity, breaking your heart and then restoring it. So, I'll give you an honest reply. Even though you haven't asked.**

 **The New York City Public Library. That's my favorite** **place.**

* * *

 _July 15, 2003_

 _Six…_

 **After Gloria left things shifted—I was a newly-minted, fully-fledged teenager, what need had I of nannies? But despite the thrill of reaching the zenith of childhood—I don't think you grasp how utterly lucky I was to have survived to the tender age of thirteen—I hadn't fully appreciated Gloria until she was gone, until I was packed away to my first boarding school. The remainder of my adolescence was comprised of a succession of institutions that struggled to tolerate my general misconduct, but most significantly, my proclivity for fighting. So prolific were my issues that I attained a sort of infamy among the more elite boarding schools. Officials and professors roundly contemned me, though to be fair…I wouldn't have liked me either. I was a hellion. Blasé, rakish, with an utter abhorrence for authority that landed me in hot water more times than I care to recall. Despite my outward bravado, however, I privately craved acceptance. But with every look or word of disapproval, I contrarily, inexplicably increased in insolence. Fought more, mouthed off constantly, upping the ante—if they thought I was so bad, I would live up to those expectations.**

 **Everyone viewed me as a lost cause, destined for prison or rehab or a non-AMA sanctioned biker gang, and I likely would have met those dismal predictions if not for an unanticipated, much-needed intervention. Mired in loneliness, feeling the sting of rejection, I fell back on what I knew, what was familiar—words. Writing my pain helped, pouring feelings onto paper proved cathartic, and on a whim, I sent my exposition to the school's literary magazine. Honestly, I didn't expect for it to come to anything, but there was a power in knowing I could share my thoughts, my feelings with others, no matter how small the audience. Damien, then-editor of the paper, requested a meeting the day following my submission much to my surprise and apprehension. But he…gave me what I needed. More than I could ever have projected. His words, his encouragement, his publication of my piece proved the spark that ignited a resultant fervency in me for literature, for words. It jettisoned me, that turn of events. Proved pivotal in the course of my life. In the brief space of a year, I developed from a hot-headed miscreant into a passionate, capable wordsmith, writing out what I felt as opposed to fighting it out.**

 **Words saved me as a boy. Have proved a solace since. And I'm hoping they'll come to my aid yet again. Hoping they'll make right what's broken between you and** **I.**

* * *

Swathed in a belted Burberry trench, running late as per usual, Rick dropped his sixth "secret letter" into the post as he swept out the door to the awaiting town car. They arrived at _The White Horse Tavern_ more expediently than he'd anticipated, pulling him from his pensive thoughts.

Wending his way through the stuffy crush of bodies, he spied Robert Weldon ensconced in a booth, his fingers stroking a frosty stein of dark ale, smiling in welcome as Rick stepped into view.

"You," Weldon groused as Rick settled across from the mayor, "are late. I've had to fend off four pushy admirers who approached me with political inquiries, and two attempts at drunken photo ops. Next round's on you."

"Fair enough," Rick conceded solemnly, "although to be fair, you know me well enough by now to plan for my inevitable tardiness."

"You're saying it's my fault I was all but accosted?"

"Eh, heavily _implying_ it, perhaps. And you know, the victim mentality looks great on you," Rick drawled, and Bob snorted, his dark eyes lightening in amusement.

"Ribbing aside, Rick, it's good to see you. Life picks up and before you know it, friends, _good_ friends, are left in the proverbial dust. Collateral damage of a demanding career."

"I can relate to that sentiment. And it's good to see you, too. I've been…lonely sounds so maudlin. But, yeah. Lonely."

"Life as a single dad not the rousing adventure you expected?"

"No," he interjected hastily, trying to clarify his muddled thoughts, "being a father, raising Alexis, that's…it's my top priority. And she's great, you know—"

"You're lucky, she's a fantastic kid," he affirmed.

"Thanks. But despite tea parties, cookie decorating, Disney marathons, and incalculable outings to museums, it's…lonely. Draining. Sometimes I go for days without talking, _really_ talking to another adult, and so this," he waved a hand between him and the attentive man opposite, "it's…refreshing."

Bob hummed perceptively, flagged down a waiter, requested twin lagers, and then turned his assessing back on Rick. "So nothing on the romance front, I take it."

"Unless you count the one-sided infatuation of several languishing fans, that's a resounding no. You?"

"Being mayor has its perks," he mused with a leer and Rick barked out a laugh.

"Certainly a step up from city councilman, I'm certain. And I'll venture a guess you're seeing significantly more action both politically and personally."

"Well, you're not wrong," he hedged warily.

"Plausible deniability, I get it," Rick rushed to assure him. "You're the mayor now, the big cheese. 'Sexploits' are generally frowned upon."

"God, Rick," Weldon scoffed, _"_ s _exploits?"_

They shared a quiet laugh, and spent the consequent hour discussing the political intricacies of Bob's current term, Rick's latest _Storm_ novel, Alexis' academic strides, and—lulled into a warm, beer-induced complacency—Kate.

"Wait," Bob leaned across the table, frowning in confusion, "I thought you said you weren't seeing anyone?"

"Well, I'm not. Really. Seeing her…" he stumbled over his words, trying to explain the dynamics, but a bit too inebriated to do it justice. "We've been sending letters. Back and forth. Opening up to one another sight-unseen has been…kind of magical, you know? There's nothing to distract or detract from our conversation—which is always _good,_ never superficial or extraneous. Or, at least, it _was_ good…" He trailed off, suddenly dismal, his countenance darkening.

"What happened?" Bob asked, his voice coaxing.

"I fucked up, man," he muttered, draining his glass, "wasn't honest initially, then came clean, and now…I don't know what she's gonna do, frankly. She was already pretty emotionally friable when I first reached out, hurting from what seems to be a significant loss, her father struggling with alcoholism. And because I kept the truth of my identity from her, addressed her using my given name rather than my _nom de plume_ , she feels betrayed. Which is understandable. I mean, I get it, I just…I'm kicking myself. Trying so damn hard to fix this shit storm, because if I don't, I have a sneaking suspicion I'll carry the disappointment, all the _could have beens, should have beens, might have beens…_ carry them for I don't know how long."

"Jesus, Rick."

"Yeah, I know. I'm an idiot."

"Well, that. And you're falling for her. _Fell_ , rather. Past tense. A girl you've never even met."

"What?" He was genuinely shocked at Bob's assessment, at the steady certainty of the other man's gaze, and it sobered him rapidly. A wave of heat swamped him, jacking his pulse, and his breath caught imperceptibly, because _goddamn._ The mayor was right.

"You didn't know," Weldon stated quietly, looking smug and amused and understanding.

"Idiot, remember?" He murmured self-deprecatingly, and they lapsed into companionate reflection, allowing the revelation to sink in, watching the world pass in a haze of tipsy laughter and flirtation.

"Dylan Thomas loved this place, you know," Bob stated, breaking the conversational silence. At Rick's look of bemusement, he chuckled tolerantly, forged ahead wryly. _"Do not go gentle into that good night…_ Thomas prescribed the advice, and it's wisdom I think you should apply to your own set of circumstances—be persistent, a reckoning force, wear down her feelings of betrayal with consistency and contrition. To quote another philosophical giant, _'Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end.'_ "

"Lennon is the real life Yoda," Rick acknowledged, a faint smile curving his mouth. "I've been sending her more letters. Consistently. One a day. Hoping my honestly—late though it may be—will trigger a response."

"You may always be late, Rick—to bars, to maturity, to honesty—but when you arrive, it's always _good,_ and if she's paying any sort of attention she'll see that." He paused, pushed his empty mug away from him, smiled broadly, "In the interim, we need to cheer you up. Distract you. Four days from now—the evening of the nineteenth—the New York City Police Foundation is hosting its annual fundraising gala. I'm going to be in attendance and you should…come along. It'll get you out of the house and it may even provide some relevant fodder for your next _Storm_ novel."

The last gala he'd attended had yielded no romantic conquests—only a stilted introduction to his current publisher, and a rash from his over-starched collar. Not a ringing endorsement for galas by and large. But Bob was regarding him with this pleased, triumphant expression, like he'd found a way to heroically rescue Rick from utter despondency, and he just…couldn't refuse. Couldn't rebuff his kindness.

"Alright, then. Yeah, I'll come. Are you…going stag?"

Bob huffed, "That's…debatable. I have a few options, but nothing's definitive yet. Yourself?"

He was in the throes of unrequited infatuation with a woman he'd never met. Of course he was going stag.

"I'm riding solo for this one," he asserted, exchanged a look of commiseration with Bob, and summarily ordered another round.

* * *

In the days preceding the gala, Rick composed four more letters, four additional secrets, hoping his transparency would wear her down. Elicit…something. Forgiveness? Understanding? Anything was preferable to this unremittingly oppressive silence. He'd even take unfiltered fury over this, because at least then he'd have some answers. His imagination wreaked havoc on his calm, weaving a multitude of potentials that ultimately culminated in the eventuality he most feared—permanent severance of all communication. Kate lost to him, leaving only regrets, a handful of letters, and unfulfilled possibilities in the wake of her subtle departure.

The nineteenth arrived quietly, a day of placid sunshine and gentle breezes Rick willingly exploited, taking Alexis first to the zoo then over to Eddie's Sweet Shop for extravagant sundaes. The tranquil pace of the morning soothed his frayed nerves, Alexis' chatter and easy laughter a balm, and by the time the evening rolled around he felt more himself than he had in the past ten days. The guilt was still present, the worry still alive in the back of his mind, but it was subdued, and he was grateful. Martha arrived to watch Alexis, effusively announcing their impending trip to an indoor ice rink, and Rick departed to a chorus of cheerful planning.

He had the driver drop him at the corner of Park and 49th and walked the short distance in introspective silence, basking in the muted glow of the periwinkle twilight.

The Waldorf Astoria was exceptionally dazzling tonight, vigorously bustling with resplendent guests, bursting with floral arrangements and heavily laden buffet tables, and thrumming with an undercurrent of excitement. He spotted Weldon across the room, chatting with a group of lovely—presumably single—women who were fawning over the handsome man to the point of servility. Gross, he grimaced, proceeding to load down a plate with _hors d'oeuvres_ and selections from a well-stocked _antipasto_ platter before making the rounds.

Judge Markaway cornered him, and they talked golf and _Storm_ for the better part of a half hour before Mrs. Markaway bustled over, eager for her husband to meet someone notable, her interruption allowing Rick to make a hasty exit. He drifted over to where Bob was stationed, quietly joining the circle of imperious politicians and government officials, appreciative when Weldon made the necessary introductions and drew Rick into conversation with them. The night was…pleasant. Not fun, not exciting, but not uninteresting either. Beautiful women draped themselves over the arms of men more wealthy, more notable than him, luxuriant in elaborate dresses and large-stoned gems he knew must cost the earth. Members of law enforcement—old and young alike—milled around the room, smartly turned out in regulation uniforms, some bearing regalia of distinction. Servers in white tuxes flitted lightly from guest to guest, freely doling out appetizers and flutes of shimmering champagne. Bob had been right, he mused. It was good, tonight. Excellent material to work into a future novel, _Storm_ or other.

Suddenly restless, he excused himself from Weldon's formidable collection of friends and made a beeline for the open bar, wanting something richer, stronger than champagne. And as he crossed the marble floor of the ballroom, his Ferragamo's clicking rhythmically against the slick expanse, his thoughts fixated on a tumbler of scotch, he saw her. And forgot to breathe.

She was encased in some sleek, crimson, off-the-shoulder number. The tight sheath embraced every dip and curve of her body, sensuously following the long line of her legs, and dramatically terminated in a silky pool at her feet. It was a stunning effect against the creamy expanse of her chest, her sloping shoulders, and when she turned to speak to another guest beside her…dear _god_ , the designer had a eschewed a back, and the narrow column of her spine, all that skin…it enticed. Begged to be touched. From the way she was positioned, from the deeply parted sweep of her chestnut hair, it was proving difficult to see her face, but finally, _finally,_ she rotated to face the opposite wall, and suddenly he _had_ to breathe because he was _gasping._ Stunning.

Dissimilar to the other female guests, she wore little in the way of jewelry save for a pair of simple drop earrings. But she didn't need it. Not with a face like that—faintly Slavic, entirely angelic. The tilt of her eyes was almost feline in nature, and though the color was inscrutable from this distance, they appeared dark. Mysterious. Sultry. Her lipstick matched the saturated hue of her dress, a wine-red slash, but the rest of her makeup was minimal, understated. Overwhelmingly classy. She reminded him of Hollywood starlets from the 40s and 50s, all delicate carnal appeal; effortlessly, collectively embodying both innocence and sin in a way that brought men to their knees.

Despite his open gawking, she seemed unaware of his notice, idly tilting her champagne flute from one side to the other, staring out with unfocused eyes. A hand on her elbow snapped her from whatever musings had held her in thrall, and she turned to face—a man. _Of course._ His heart sank a little, because _of course_ a woman as beautiful as she wouldn't have come alone. He was handsome, this other man, and tall. Looked at her like she was the sun or some exquisite work of priceless art, and why wouldn't he? Everything about her beguiled, awakened passion.

After a moment, she nodded, spoke to her companion, and he merged with the crush of bodies, presumably to bring her a refreshment. And he decided, drinking her in—all strawberries and cream and mystique—that escort or no, he had to talk to her. At the very least, say hello, pay her a sincere compliment, learn her name. Summoning up the courage to do exactly that, he started making his way across the room, desperately trying to cobble together a meaningful opening line, something pithy and memorable but simultaneously unaffected when…his phone rang.

Groaning, he pulled it from his coat pocket, frowned when he saw it was his mother calling, answered a bit reluctantly, and then startled at her words.

"Oh, god. Slow down. Wait…which hospital?"

* * *

By the time they returned to the loft from the ER, it was late, and his mother stayed only long enough to bid them both goodnight, press a lingering kiss to Alexis' forehead. When he'd arrived in a flustered rush, his mother had recounted the story, soothing him with reassurances before answering his harried questions. Apparently, the ice had been busy today—teeming with families and packs of rowdy adolescent boys, who, according to Martha, were the culprits in their tale of woe. Some beefy teen showboater had careened into Alexis from behind, sending her sprawling on the hard ice, splitting open the underside of her jaw. She'd been extraordinarily brave, his mother crowed, eyes gleaming proudly. No hyperbolized weeping or whining, not Alexis. She'd composedly, albeit a bit tearfully, answered the questions posed by one of the rink staff, counting fingers and stating her name before slowly making her way off the ice.

Now, to ameliorate the pain and embarrassment, they were reclining on the supple leather sofa, feet propped on the coffee table, indulging in another sundae.

"Two helpings in one day, huh?" Rick grinned, and she smiled back wanly.

"Yeah, 's nice," she supplied, popping another spoonful of mint chip into her waiting mouth, "ice cream always makes it better."

"That's my brilliant girl. Knows the emotional as well as physical value of ice cream—and the cold will help keep down the swelling," he added, eyeing the swath of snowy gauze. Beneath it were six neat stitches, a line of tiny ants he'd nervously watched the attending knit into her tender skin. God, he hated that she'd gotten hurt. Felt guilty despite it being accidental, despite the absolute unpredictability of the situation.

Another tired smile from Alexis, another helping of ice cream, and then a quizzical look directed at him. A meaningful pause. "Dad, are you okay?"

 _What? Why would you ask that?—_ he intended to say, but all that emerged was a croaky, uncouth, "Huh?"

"You've just seemed…like something was wrong. For a while now. And I thought maybe it was writer's block—that's usually what bums you out—but you've been doing a lot of writing, so I don't think it's that. And I'm just…worried. About you. The way you smile right now, the look in your eyes…it's like you're sad or something."

Precocity equals perception, Rick. He'd forgotten. And she was blinking at him expectantly, looking disheveled and sleepy and wise and understanding. And based on his recent experiences with concealment or omission of truth, he decided to simply…level with her.

"Yeah, I'm sad," he admitted evenly, and watched a frown pull at her face.

"Why?"

"Do you remember when we stopped at that little bookstore on the way to the Hamptons? And you mentioned how odd it was for me to purchase my own novel?" At her nod of confirmation, he continued. "I bought it because…someone had written notes in it. And I thought that was peculiar and interesting. After reading through the notes, I found the name of the person who had owned the novel, and I contacted her. Asked if she wanted me to return her book, if she had purposely donated it, or if it ending up in a secondhand store was an accident. Turns out, she lost it some time ago, and was very excited to receive it. We started sending letters back and forth, talking to one another, sharing little pieces of our lives. Building a friendship. But I…I really messed up, and she hasn't contacted me since…well, in a while."

She hummed, stirred the soupy concoction in her bowl, and then regarded him thoughtfully. " _How_ did you mess up?"

"I lied," he said simply, and she opened her mouth in a wordless _oh_ of comprehension.

"I would be angry, too," she finally said, "it feels bad when someone lies to you. But that doesn't mean she'll be angry forever. Friends…they forgive each other eventually, if they're _really_ friends. It's just what they do."

He wanted to squeeze her against him, smother her in a hug for her attempts at comfort, but he contented himself with tousling her hair. "Here's hoping you're right, kiddo. You done?"

Nodding, she passed him her bowl and he set about tidying up in the kitchen, returning toppings to the refrigerator doors, placing dishes in the sink—too tired, too distracted to finish the job tonight. When he returned to the living room, Alexis was sprawled on the cushions, deep in a Codeine-induced sleep, and rather than move her Rick simply covered her with a heavy throw blanket, slipped a pillow beneath her. Poor baby, he mused, brushing a shock of limp hair from her forehead.

After doing what he could to satisfactorily tuck her in, he ambled into his office, flicking off lights as he went. Nearly to his master suite—and much to his consternation—he felt the tell-tale vibrations of his phone, wondering peevishly who would call so late.

 _12:42 in the freaking morning, people?_

He very nearly didn't answer it, exhaustion luring him to his bed, willing him to ignore the call. But despite his hesitation, he grudgingly answered with a brusque, "Talk to me."

A beat of silence, an indrawn breath, and then a hesitant voice—sonorous, warm, velvet on his ears, and _oh_ , impossibly familiar.

"Hey, it's me. It's…Kate."

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _Wow, this one was long. But there you go! Angst resolved! A big thank you to those that provided feedback on Chapter 6, and I'd like to take a moment to clarify why I wrote Kate's reaction the way I did as well as why there are some angsty chapters interspersed throughout what is labelled a Romance/Friendship story!_

 _Speaking to Kate's response_ — _it_ was _over the top, it_ was _disproportionate, but I think it's in character for the Kate in this story. The Kate we knew was stronger, more mature, likely a bit more mellow and a sight more understanding. But at 23, raw from her mother's murder, contending with an alcoholic father, and working a traumatizing case, I see that Rick's deception would have proved a final straw of sorts for our young, volatile, and defensive detective. Honestly, it was a tossup deciding what the fallout would look like, but...there you have it._

 _Speaking to the angst_ — _I promise I'll keep the angst to a minimum, guys! But despite that, I also want the story to have authenticity. Kate's career is inherently angst-ridden, and so there will be some darker chapters by dint of necessity. Beyond that, however, I also think that hardships and struggles are points of proof for friendship. Without enduring difficulties, without facing obstacles, and especially without moving beyond those issues, friendship loses its meaning. It's a surface-based relationship. And in crafting this story and Kate and Rick's subsequent bond, I foresaw something strong and authentic. So yeah, they may go through a little fire, but they'll come out on the other side more refined than before. And stronger for it. But I promise not to unnecessarily torture my characters_— _that's not good writing, it's just sensationalism._

 _And I really want them to have their happy ending. So hold on to that, even through chapters that may be choppier than you prefer!_

 _Thanks for sticking with me this far_ — _both in regards to the fic and this expansive author's note_ — _and I hope you enjoyed this latest installment!  
_

 _Up next...Kate and Rick have their first phone conversation, Will presses his suit, a conversation with Lanie takes place, and the case moves forward._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 : You're Still Here**

 _ **Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.**_

* * *

The days following Alex's revelatory letter passed in a hazy succession of burnt coffees, fleeting naps in the break room, and tentative thrust-and-parry exchanges with one Will Sorenson. All unruffled composure and aloof professionalism, he unnerved her with his distant, gray gaze, and she had the impression that he catalogued her every word and reaction, silently taking her measure as they worked the case. They had set up shop in a conference room Montgomery designated for their use—Sorenson bringing armfuls of files and nondescript banker boxes, Kate contributing a sizable rolling whiteboard. "Timeline," she snapped at his smirk of bemusement, and from the flicker of his eyebrows she thought she'd startled the feeb with her vehemence. It's not that she _disliked_ Sorenson, he hadn't given her just cause thus far, but as a woman—and a conspicuously attractive one at that—she'd found subtle shows of authoritativeness, of brusque intimidation to be helpful. Yeah, she was showboating, warning Sorenson away from the misogynistic treatment and patronization she'd fought from the moment she'd donned her regulation blues. Like a dog raising its hackles, she was all bristle at the moment. But that didn't mean she wouldn't bite if pushed.

Side by side in passive silence, they'd sorted through hefty sheaves of paper, occasionally breaking their absorptive stride to ask a question, flag relevant material, compare notes, tape a picture or scribble down information on what Kate had mentally dubbed the "murder board"—reminiscent of the collaged materials she had on her mother's case at home. It helped, scrutinizing their collective notes as a whole, seeing a half-formed picture emerge. And Will, inscrutable and mildly abrasive though he might be, had a categorically perceptive grasp on the details of Deacon's murder. Which she could grudgingly, discreetly appreciate from a personal perspective, but more significantly, was a requirement in what was already a rapidly devolving clusterfuck of a case.

"Back at Quantico, we had several behavioral specialists hone in on the Deacon abduction right after it happened. They spit out a pretty solid profile, which may propel an investigation in real danger of stagnation. Or at the very least, provide us with something substantive to go on," he muttered, stonily observing the collection of photos wreathed in Kate's concise script.

At her wordless response, he turned those singular eyes on her and hummed. "Not a fan of profiling, I see."

"It's just…it's a specious science. Educated guesswork at best."

"And at worst?" He prompted flatly.

"At worst, it's misleading, taking us down a road that's opposite where we should be. And profiling also increases the likelihood of investigators discounting evidence because it doesn't align with the psychological outline they were fed. It can engender preexisting expectations," she groused, crossing her arms defensively.

"Good. Knowing the potential risks, you should have no problems factoring that in during the investigation—maintaining objectivity. But we're running on fumes, detective," he justified coolly, "we have no eyewitnesses, no motive, limited physical evidence, and no ID's as of yet for the four skeletal remains found near Deacon's body. This is…it's _something._ Concede that, and ease up. We need to try this, see if something pops." He wasn't _asking_ forher concurrence, he was demanding capitulation, she noted, miffed at his high-handedness. Despite his jibe, she gave him a terse nod of acceptance. She could gracefully bear up under his diatribes, could be tolerant and lenient. For now, at least. For Montgomery and the 12th, if not herself. Could invest in this rather unpalatable partnership of inconvenience in the hopes this case might prove less of a nuisance, less of a turf war than she'd initially anticipated.

"Based on the little collected evidence, the nature of the abduction, and the newly attributed details of the gravesite, they're saying we're looking for a white male, mid- to late-forties, quiet, loner type, wouldn't be surprising if he was still camped out in his mother's basement. Likely has a profession that allows him a great deal of anonymity and isolation—so, IT or online journalism or editing. Something along those lines. The way the bodies were found—carefully staged, preserved with quick lime, wrapped tidily in tarps, buried deep enough to deter predators—suggests someone who felt some form of remorse at his actions. But the big question is—"

"Is his motive sexual or other." Beckett finished blandly, and Sorenson sighed his acknowledgement. "The problem with your pat profile is that it's exactly that—simplistic. You just described roughly two million of New York City's fine inhabitants, and that's not even accounting for outlying areas."

"I agree. Which is why we need more evidence," the patronizing edge to his tone nettled her, but again, she banked her frustration and opted for professionalism. Silence in the face of derision. "Any idea when that ME of yours is slated to finish the autopsy?" He inquired after a beat.

"Dr. Parish has already performed it," she responded, subdued and stiffly formal, "we're just waiting on lab results. As soon as she hears back, she'll call me."

It wasn't twenty minutes later that Lanie rang, and they silently hustled down to the morgue, maintaining an awkward distance from one another in the confined space of the elevator. Peripherally, she could see Sorenson surreptitiously observing her, could feel the weight of his gaze on her before he spoke stiltedly. "Are you…familiar with child cases?"

"My first," she responded tersely, not meeting his eyes.

"Rough," he grunted plainly, "they're always rough. Make sure you talk about it with someone."

 _Alex,_ her mind supplied involuntarily, and then she bristled at the intrusiveness of the moment—at Sorenson's well-meaning, though probing conversation, and at the remembrance of raw betrayal—before sucking in a calming breath and providing a simple, "Thanks."

"Out of sheer curiosity," he asked as the elevator shuddered to its destination, as the doors skidded back and the grey light spilled into the carriage, "why isn't SVU on this? Territorially speaking, I assumed this was more their thing."

"Departmental restructuring and an overload of high-profile cases meant they didn't have the space, and the reason their department requires restructuring in the first place—misappropriation of government funds and a hellishly protracted lawsuit—means they lack the finances to hire on much needed additions to their team. So…its ours. By dint of sheer necessity."

"Despite the nature of it, you may think of this as an unexpected windfall. Though you should tread lightly. Cases like this, they…make or break careers," he supplied warningly, and she rolled her eyes at his barbed comment, tactfully opting for silence. Again. She had no interest in capitalizing on Deacon's case, in reaping the benefits of death, regardless of the professional payoff. This was strictly about justice for her, about preventing another tragedy.

What a supposition. What an absolute _dick_.

Lanie was positioned at an industrial sink, diagrams, photos, and meticulous notes methodically arranged on the stainless counter beside her, and the way she swept her dark eyes over Sorenson when they pushed through the doors was laden with _sin._ Warranted a searing blush. From _Kate_. Jesus, for someone so preoccupied with clinical standards of cleanliness she could give the filthiest looks. The feeb had enough propriety to huff an embarrassed laugh, shuffle his feet apprehensively, and Lanie shifted her attention with predatory aim, pinned Kate with a knowing gaze. "Who's the suit, girl?"

"Dr. Lanie Parish, this is Agent Will Sorenson with the FBI. He and the agency are graciously assisting with the Deacon investigation," she gritted out, struggling to maintain her composure in the face of Lanie's leering.

"Oh, I can imagine he's _assisting_ ," Lanie muttered as an aside, and flush intensifying, Kate contemplated the repercussions of simply striding out the door and catching the train home. She was too tired, too brittle, emotions too tender to bear up under the ME's well-meaning banter. After a beat of mortifying silence, Lanie sighed weakly and, without further digression, deconstructed her findings.

Odd how she could turn it on and off, be bubbling with racy entendres and suggestive brazenness one minute, and all hyper-rationalized clinicalism the next. But then again…not abnormal. Not really. Coping came in a variety of offbeat forms and flavors—gallows humor, excessive exercise, physical pain, over-compartmentalization, sleeplessness, hypersomnia, loquaciousness, lewd behavior or speech, and…drinking. So, then again, not odd at all. There were far more detrimental ways of fraying the stresses and strains of the job. If her racy quips were a denotation of coping, Kate could appreciate that objectively. Though, admittedly, not subjectively.

In summation, Lanie found no evidence of sexual assault, no weight loss, no signs of maltreatment beyond the bruising from strangulation, and even reported that his teeth were clean—meaning maintenance of hygiene had been prioritized, for whatever reason. The lack of abrasions around his wrists and ankles supported the theory that he hadn't been restrained, but the tox screen did raise a red flag. Ketamine.

"Whoever took Deacon didn't need to tie him up," Sorenson growled, looking pained, smudged a thumb across a photo focused on the injection site—a collection of delicate puncture marks concealed in the grubby, tender fold of a diminutive elbow. "He just tossed him down a fucking K-hole."

"Dissociative state, hallucinations, and depersonalization aren't uncommon symptoms in recreational use," Lanie supplied, slumping against the countertop, the affected flirtation of before replaced by a hollow weariness Kate recognized all too well. It was the calm before the storm of grief. Of stifled rage followed by agonized processing, grappling with numerous and indecipherable emotions. Sorenson's intrusive approach had struck a sour note, but damn if he wasn't right—she needed to talk. Lanie needed to talk. Or prognostically they would all but implode. Especially as the case progressed further. And with this case, no one had the luxury of falling to pieces.

In an effort to gain some advantage over their unknown perp, Montgomery had obtained a preventative media injunction and phlegmatically informed everyone at the 12th that the divulgence of any information to the press would result in immediate suspension pending termination. Keeping the details of the case under wraps would allow their team to gather evidence unhampered by nettlesome reporters, and it would keep the killer in the proverbial dark, keep him complacent. Buy them some time to slog through the details of the case. She understood the rationale behind Montgomery's pronouncement, respected it even, but it severely limited their scope of interpersonal support—whittled it down to those with prior knowledge.

Resultantly, she and the ME needed to grab drinks. Soon.

"Which might explain why Deacon was killed so soon following his abduction," Sorenson reasoned, snapping her back to the moment, "if he experienced a break with reality, it's hard to predict how he might've responded—the dissociations from K use are often likened to schizophrenic episodes. Sufferers of a Ketamine OD can become violent, intractable, almost feral. It's just…it's an aberration. Such a hasty killing. Varying from the timeline this wildly—if it's who we think it is…"

 _Who we think it is?_

"And who do you think it is, agent?" Kate enjoined lowly, indignation flaring, piqued that he hadn't _led_ with whatever suspicions he harbored.

Sorenson paused, flicked his eyes to Kate. "There's been talk he might be The Fox."

 _What the hell?_ Kate blinked once, opened her mouth to request clarification, and was a little dismayed when no words emerged. "The guy who abducts kids from rural areas?" She managed on her second pass, and Sorenson nodded, his mouth a grim crease that deepened the grooves bracketing his mouth. From beside her, Lanie issued a little grunt of surprise, perceptibly taken aback.

"The Fox—a cunning predator who steals only _boys_ from rural regions, from farmhouses or isolated trailers more often than not, and all under the cover of darkness. And after our forensic anthropologist has an opportunity to examine the bones of the additional remains left in that excuse for a goddamn grave we'll have either confirmation or repudiation of our speculation."

" _Your_ speculation," she corrected sharply, the edges of her anger peeking through, "when were you going to loop me in, Sorenson?"

"I'm telling you now," he rationalized, his stance, the set of his jaw, the cast of his gaze goadingly impenitent.

"Maybe you're not in the habit of sharing relevant information with outside law enforcement agencies at Quantico, but I don't care. We're in this thing as quasi-partners, and you should have told me—from the outset, not post facto—that we could potentially have a serial killer on our hands," she upbraided intently, somehow managing to keep her tone from growing in volume and stridence. He merely bobbed his head in reply, transparently indifferent to her request, which whetted her temper, magnified her frustration.

"So that's it? No apologies or explanations? You knowingly sat on pertinent information and you think acceptable restitution is nodding your fucking _head_ at me?"

Okay, well…now she was loud. And he was placidly regarding her as though her response was disproportionate. As though _hers_ was the illogical response in this unnecessary dissimulation.

"It's nothing personal, detective," his tone was gratingly pandering, mollifying, "I just…don't know you. And it's all speculative anyhow. You made that perfectly clear when we discussed the details of the profile. Regardless of your feelings on the matter, it's done. And now you know."

"Moving forward," she managed to grit out levelly, "I demand full disclosure from you. This is non-negotiable. I don't accept your rationalizations as valid or logical. I don't care if you _know_ me or not, but we're in this _collectively_ so either you _be_ my fucking partner or you content yourself with the knowledge that this case will fall apart around our ears due to _your_ professional failings," she made fists of her trembling fingers, pressed them against her thighs to diffuse her ire, "I'm not what you were wanting in a partner, I recognize that, but I'm what you got—I'm a woman, I'm green, and yes, this is my first child case as you so tactfully spotlighted, but I won't apologize. Because I'm good at what I do. Outstanding, actually, which isn't egotism, I assure you. Rather, it's truth—factually founded and fully substantiated by my close rate. And if you would give me half a goddamn chance, I would prove it to you explicitly."

Flaring emotion spent, temper cooling, her fury swiftly tarnished to a sort of trembling lethargy—like a supernova, there one moment and gone the next. She turned her head, met Lanie's sphinxlike gaze, "Sorry, Lane. I can't…we'll continue this later? Finish discussing case details in a bit? I'm gonna…"

"Go, do your thing, girl," Lanie kindly provided, the corners of her mouth pulling up in the hint of a smile, which Kate fleetingly returned before pivoting on her heel, breezing past a mute, rigid Sorenson, and slipping through the double doors. Trying in vain to outrun the specters of anger, of mortification, of dejection that had colonized the shadows and corners of this case. Or more to point, within her fractured self.

* * *

Some hours later, Kate grudgingly returned to their outfitted conference room, toting a scalding Red Eye and a scanty collection of printouts on The Fox. Sorenson sat in a folding chair, bent over a stack of files, hastily straightening at her arrival and meeting her gaze charily. "I…was out of line," he admitted tightly, if not sincerely. "Trite as it may sound, it's not you. It's…I lost my partner on a case a few months back. Bore marked similarities to this one. And…I just can't seem to stop—I keep thinking of him and that case and drawing parallels. So you're right. I don't want you as a partner because I haven't moved on yet. Not ready to let go of that pain. Because once I do, even that part of Mike is going to be gone. It'll be another, small, collective death. More erasure from memory. And I hate it." From the pulsing vein at his temple, the convulsive swallow, the taut clench of his jaw, she knew the words had costed him, and quietly acknowledged them with a hum.

"Well, I know what it is to lose someone," she said by way of acceptance, an empathic condolence, "so, let's just…put this behind us. Press on with the case," she held up the papers in her hand indicatively, "especially in light of our timetable."

"His cooling off period has diminished, the cycle time decreasing—by our best estimations, we have roughly eight weeks before he strikes again," Sorenson informed, raking a hand through his cropped hair.

Eight weeks, she thought dismally, and an unpromising dearth of leads. In combination, factors that meant they might as well be sitting on their hands for what she anticipated would be a vacuous duration. A glorified waiting game with lives at stake. Where even victory might still mean loss.

* * *

Amidst the frenetic pace of the investigation, the daily arrival of Alex's letters acted as a sort of intermission—a reminder to breathe, to rest her racing thoughts if not her body, to drink another cup of caustic break-room coffee. But she didn't open them, couldn't bring herself to break the seals, to read what she knew to be articulate, moving apologies. Words that would effectively wring from her every remnant of bitterness. And much like Sorenson, she wasn't prepared to let go of the memory of his duplicity just yet. Even if his intentions had been innocent. Which—initial anger sufficiently cooled—she felt fairly certain was an accurate assessment. Really, though, with a little distance, it didn't read like anger so much as fear and unease and reactive self-defense—against what amounted to a benign deception. A white lie. Admittedly, her reaction had been hyperbolic, but did she want to maintain a relationship built on untruths? Even if they were superficial? And really, how did continuing this friendship improve upon her life? Was it worth the investment, the pursuit?

Everything seemed a bit abstracted and bewildering at the moment, and she was chalking up her vacillations to too little sleep and even less food. Trying to sift through her feelings on Alex while so off-course presented itself as an ill-advised choice, one that would only result in additional confusion. So, rather than rip into the envelopes and allow the hurt to breathe, to fully abate, she kept his letters neatly stacked on her bedside table, would trace his tight, blunt scrawl, illuminated by the bronze glow of the streetlights, before sleep swamped her. Later, she promised herself, when she wasn't so beset with fatigue and debilitating unease, she would read them.

At the advent of his fourth letter, however, needing objective counsel, she took Alex's advice and called up Lanie who warmly proposed they share a cab from the precinct to Midtown West, and from there, a bottle of Retsina from _Molyvos_. Over spanakopita, meatballs, and a peppery red, Kate gradually felt herself unspool, the story spilling free unedited and utterly candid as Lanie looked on pensively from the seat opposite.

"I need to talk about Alex," she led quietly, taking a generous sip of her wine, "and I need an objective outside party to weigh in because…I'm a little—a lot uncertain."

"About Alex?" She clarified, brow knitting at Kate's nod, "I thought you guys had this seamlessly magical thing built on words and serendipity and depth?"

"You're not alone in that assumption. Until reading his last letter, I thought…he—well, he lied. About who he was. About his name. It's not Alex, but to me he still _is._ Alex, I mean. I just…Lanie, I don't even know what to _call_ him, because apparently the appellation he fed me—Alex Rodgers—is no longer his legal name."

"Wait, so…help me out here. You discovered this _how_?"

"In his last letter. He came clean, told me he'd used an alias due to the recognition his actual identity garners. Said he wanted to be seen, wanted to be known as who he _was_ as opposed to how others painted him. Which I can appreciate objectively, to an extent, but…I don't know. I guess I feel…conned," the admission stung, and Kate began indiscriminately denuding a spanakopita triangle, digging away at the pastry until her fingers brushed pulpy spinach and piping cheese, "I was operating under the—clearly misguided—perception that we were reciprocally sharing these deep, semi-intimate truths, peeling back layers of ourselves for remote inspection and anonymous exploration and—and the whole time he's—he wasn't even forthright with me concerning his _name_."

Carding a hand through her choppy locks, Lanie huffed out a contemplative sigh, hummed reflectively. "And all of this has left you a bit nonplussed, right? Confounded over the authenticity of your friendship, relationship, _whatever_ , because if the man can't even level with you about his _name,_ how can you assume any of his other claims to be…unaffected?"

"Exactly," Kate affirmed, feeling vindicated in her rationalization, reassured that distancing herself was an apt response, but then Lanie hung her head and _laughed._

 _Oh. Well, then…_

"Girl, I just…" her fingers drifted over her wineglass, mindlessly tripped up the length of the stem and back down again as she quietly deliberated, internally weighing her options before meeting Kate's befuddled gaze. _"What's in a name?"_

"Did you—did you really just play the Bard Card?" Kate sputtered, left off-balance by the allusion, by Lanie's perceived defection.

"I did," she retorted emphatically, "and I call bullshit. What integral role does his name play—a _name,_ which amounts to little more than a necessary social convention, a glorified specifier or personal designation—when that proverbial rose by any other name would smell as sweet? Isn't he the same man, regardless of his name? The sum total of all his his…collective revelations and experiences, his idiosyncrasies and memories, and _not_ solely a trivial composition of letters? Isn't that an oversimplification? A superficial reduction?"

"It—it's not—you're deemphasizing the implications of this, Lanie. It's _not_ the fact that his name isn't Alex. That's not it…I mean, his name could be fucking _Rorschach_ for all I care. it's the principle. Behind the lie. That he knowingly concealed it from me," she stiltedly explained, willing the ME to understand, to empathize.

"Okay," Lanie drawled slowly, "but he must have given some sort of explanation—a rationalization for why he chose to go by an alias?"

"Yeah, he—he said he was…well-known. Prominent. His name recognizable, his complementary reputation less than admirable, and that he wanted—wanted to begin on equal footing. To approach the relationship with…with openness. Blank slates, the both of us, I suppose. And he wanted to capitalize on the letters, use the anonymity to… _remake_ himself. Leave infamy behind and start fresh."

"And you—you're seeing that as a negative," Lanie stated blandly, a single eyebrow climbing toward her hairline.

"I am tired of saving everyone," Kate shot back heatedly, mortified to feel the sting of tears pressing behind her eyes, "I'm not a redemptive _tool_ , not a _savior,_ I'm just a messed up, floundering, exhausted, _wreck_ , and I feel like…like he manipulated me. Like he used me and used the letters to whitewash whatever havoc he wreaked in his own life, and I just…if that's why he's doing this—so he can feel _better_ about the type of man he is, then i don't want it and I certainly don't need it."

"You—" Lanie started, face contracting, her exasperation bleeding through, and then stopped abruptly as a server descended. Replenishing their wine, the fresh-faced girl genially asked for their orders. Subduedly, they indiscriminately selected entrees, still focused on the conversation, on their distinct rebuttals. And sensing the near palpable tension, the girl rapidly breezed off with a tight smile and reassurances that their selections would be right out.

After a brief collective pause, Lanie began again. "You—and I mean this with all due respect—are full of it, girl. Despite all your claims to the contrary, despite your frustration toward him, you _do_ want this, and I think it's scaring the hell out of you because you've come to care for him in your own way. You're not _saving_ him, you're starting to grow _attached._ And that's—that's atypical for you. Kate Beckett doesn't _depend_ on people. You try not to need anyone because there's always the possibility you'll lose them, but that's not the way life works. You've gotta invest anyway, regardless of the potential for pain. But you showed him a part of what makes you the messed up wreck that you are and he didn't go running. Rather, he embraced it. Doesn't that…I mean, doesn't that count for something?" The ME folded her hands, canted her body forward, regarded Kate pleadingly.

Struck dumb by Lanie's rambling soliloquy, Kate could only blink owlishly at the woman. In the face of her wordlessness, Lanie sighed patiently and tilted her head, allowed them a moment of silence, and then continued in soothing, equable tones.

"Here's what I see—he's _good_ for you. He didn't have to tell you, but he did. Consequences aside, he bared his sins to you even knowing you'd likely cut him off at the knees. Those—they aren't the actions of a manipulator, Kate. They're the choices of a man who knows he screwed up and who desperately wants to make things right. He's human. He failed. He gets it. Now you have to decide your response. And strictly speaking, if the nature of his real identity was truly such a pivotal facet of your relationship, couldn't you have…oh, I don't know, run his name and address through the DMV or NCIC databases?" She challenged good-naturedly, her eyes too kind, too knowing.

In one smooth motion, Kate swallowed what remained of her wine, grimacing as it seared its way to her stomach, perversely appreciative for the painful diversion. Somewhere along the way, their discussion had taken an unanticipated turn, forcing a confrontation with her own inner demons rather than acting as the cathartic bashing session she'd foreseen. Granted, her experience with Lanie was far from expansive, but in their past exchanges she'd struck Kate as supportive, a source of solidarity with a wealth of sass. In short, a commendable choice for venting relational frustrations. But this was…surprisingly insightful. Authentic. And uncomfortable. She'd pigeonholed the ME, underestimated her perceptiveness. And for all she loathed admitting it, Lanie's claims weren't unsubstantiated. Alex _was_ good for her, and she was pushing him away. Meeting Lanie's soft gaze, she nodded tersely.

God, she needed more wine.

"You're scared of being hurt, sweetie, I get that," Lanie allowed, laying her warm hand over the one Kate had splayed on the tabletop, "I do. And he lied. He was an idiot. I get that, too. But don't use _his_ lie as an excuse to deceive _yourself_. There's a…tragic, defeatist irony in that. Instead of defaulting to your MO, instead of running from the fear, feel it. Confront it. Conquer it."

"And how do I manage that, exactly?" Kate inquired fractiously, desperate to keep the quiet and her intruding thoughts at bay, not really requiring a response but receiving one all the same.

"I may offer advice, but I don't enforce it. That bit is up to you," she insisted with a wry smile—part apology, part wariness, part affection—that elicited a grudging curve of Kate's own mouth. Forceful or not, she liked Lanie, and she could learn to appreciate fondness that manifested as bossiness. Not that she'd ever admit it to the ME, but it could even be beneficial, Lanie's prickly honesty, her benevolent pushiness. In some ways, she even bore similarities to Alex.

Yeah, Lanie was good for her, too.

"Now that we've slogged through the heavy stuff," Dr. Parish broke through her introspections, voice rueful, "I think we deserve another drink, don't you?"

"You're buying," Kate groused pointedly, and Lanie, regarding her smugly, smirked in response, leaned across the table eagerly.

"So, tell me all about the asshat agent."

* * *

Nearly two bottles of wine later, they closed down _Molyvos_ , swaying out to waiting cabs, issuing mellowed farewells. Fatigue had settled heavy on Kate, pulling at her eyelids, slowing her breathing, and the ride home passed in a technicolor blur of streetlights and road signs. Finally, she was stumbling her way up to the fourth floor, mail in hand. After stiffly fumbling with the keys she managed to _thank god_ open her door and push her way in, head hammering, body achy, ready to press herself into the familiar insulation of her duvet. A fifth letter had arrived, and she placed it with his other missives, currently too impaired, thoughts too muddled. Not tonight, she decided, blinking blearily, and moments later drifted off.

She overslept the next morning, rushed through her ablutions and fumbled her way into clean work clothes. Hair summarily swept into a bun, dark circles rimming her eyes, no time for makeup, she made it in to the precinct ten minutes later than intended and loped to the break room, wanted nothing more than an acrid cup of coffee and the stability of her desk.

 _Shit,_ she pulled up abruptly. Montgomery. Positioned in front of the coffee maker. Raising his steaming mug to take a swig, he caught sight of her before she could beat a hasty retreat and smiled, either inattentive to her unkempt state or tactfully withholding pointed remarks. Regardless, she was appreciative, and returned his smile with a watery one of her own.

"Beckett," he greeted, "glad to see you. I actually had something I wanted to ask you."

"Sir?" She warily responded, potential inquiries filtering through her mind.

 _Why are you late, detective? Why do you resemble that junkie kid we've got in holding? How's the illegal investigation into your mother's cold case coming along?_

"I've got something of a predicament on my hands," he began apologetically, "and…well, I'd appreciate it if you'd do this for me. As a favor. Although I understand if you have other plans or reservations concerning the nature of my request."

Interest piqued, she took a step forward, tilted her head. "I promise to do what I'm able", she offered, and he nodded, seemingly content with her response.

"Tonight is the NYC Police Foundation's annual fundraising gala. Evelyn was supposed to accompany me, of course, but she and the girls came down with some nasty stomach bug late last night and she's in no shape to leave her bed, much less attend a black tie affair," he fixed her with a meaningful look, "so with an extra ticket on hand, I was wondering if you would consider attending in Evelyn's stead. You can anticipate a surfeit of influential players, both politically and legally, to be in attendance. And your being there will allow for visibility, for networking. Give other significant members of law enforcement the chance to meet you, learn your name, assign a face to all of your commendable accomplishments." Montgomery wrapped up his proposal with a weary smile over the lip of his mug, and she had to swallow back the rush of gratitude and affection that clogged her throat.

He was clever, disguising the invitation as a personal courtesy Kate would be performing, when in truth, it was entirely the reverse. Placing her in the path of state and local officials, of prominent men and women from alternative precincts, was benevolent in the extreme. It spoke of Montgomery's regard for her current professional abilities, but it also insinuated…more. Bore heavier implications. Hinted that Roy saw her progressing quickly through the ranks, and more than that, denoted his tacit support. To have his endorsement felt…hopeful. And she needed that. Needed hope.

"Of course, sir," she managed evenly, voice suspiciously soft, "I would be honored."

"Good, good," he remarked, his expression pleased, "Waldorf Astoria, tonight at eight. We'll swing by and pick you up around…7:30?"

 _Wait,_ she stiffened, a bit thrown. _We?_

* * *

Procuring an appropriate gown had proven a nightmarish undertaking, a process starting with strategic phone calls to her depressingly limited network of friends and acquaintances. Admittedly, she needed to get out more. Being such a prolific shut in really took a toll on one's social resources. But thank god for Lanie and her resourceful brain. She'd scoffed when Kate asked if she had any formalwear tucked away.

"Girl, you'd have to gain thirty pounds and shrink a good four inches before anything I had would fit your scrawny body. But I do have a friend that did a little modeling throughout med school—fair money, helped pay the bills, and she got some stellar clothes out of it," Lanie mused, then proceeded to rattle off Delilah's number. Despite her notoriously unreliable namesake, Delilah proved herself generously accommodating and eager to assist Kate in selecting the perfect dress. Rifling through her palatial closet, they culled out an armful of garments that seemed suitable and Kate hurriedly slipped in and out of stiff taffetas, slippery silks, glossy satins, and ethereal chiffons, relying wholly on Delilah's voguish judgment.

Five dresses later, five resounding _no's_ dampening her excitement, she shimmied into a wine red silk, so paper thin as to feel nonexistent. And when she rounded the doorway, Delilah's perfect mouth rounded in pleasure, her tilted eyes glowed. This one. This was it. Decision made.

Impromptu fashion show concluded, Kate left Delilah's loft in a flurry of vivid fabric and effusive thanks, rushing back to her place to cobble together…something. Honestly, everything beyond the dress seemed nebulous—hair, makeup, accessories. Trivial details that were, as a rule, far removed from her everyday focus. Kate's uniform daily look was comprised of minimal makeup, her mother's ring, and her hair gathered in a utilitarian ponytail. For an event of this nature, she was at a loss, frankly. But trying not to overthink it, because this wasn't supposed to be stressful, right?

Standing there indecisively, weighing the potential detriments of settling for a serviceable bun and pearl studs, her doorbell rang. And—seriously, thank _god_ for this clairvoyant woman—there stood Lanie, clutching a nondescript tote bulging with brushes and powder palettes and bobby pins, and of course, an obligatory bottle of white wine. "Bippity, boppety, boo, girl," she muttered wryly, and sashayed into the apartment. In what seemed to Kate a preternaturally brief amount of time, warmed through by the alcohol and their soothing chatter, Lanie wrought a transformation—sweeping her hair into an elegant twist, brushing and blotting and smudging her face to porcelain luminosity, selecting a pair of classically low profile gold drops to complement the severe simplicity of her gown.

With minutes to spare, after donning nude stilettos and smoothing the wrinkles from the bodice, she pirouetted to face her full length mirror and simply _stared._ Rivetedbecause…the sultry, sylphlike creature who gazed back couldn't possibly be her, all sensuality, all tempered heat. It was such a far cry—a dim refrain, really—from the pallid, gaunt faced, pantsuit to which she'd defaulted in the wake of her mother's death. Inanely, she wondered what Alex would think of this version of Kate, if the reality of her in any way resembled the woman he'd constructed in his mind. Alex, whose letters kept arriving, who kept coming back, who unaccountably _knew_ her despite never having met her.

Alex, who wasn't really Alex at all.

Wrapping Kate in a tight, farewell embrace—which was novel, though not unpleasant—Lanie beat a timely retreat, throwing a wink Kate's way, goading her to "get it" tonight. And now it was 7:25 and she distractedly busied herself to stave off a bewildering spate of nerves, using those last frivolous minutes to assemble a serviceable clutch—stowing lipstick, tissues, a powder compact, a miniature vial of perfume. Jarringly, her phone buzzed, and she gathered up her keys and beaded purse before slipping out the door, down the stairs to the streamlined sedan. Montgomery held the door, took her hand as she gingerly sidled into a seat, and then joined her in the interior, settling beside Sorenson, who looked unexpectedly…dapper. If she was surprised by Will's crisp appearance, flawlessly feted in an elegant tux, then he was undeniably dumbstruck.

"You—" he swallowed reflexively, taking her in with a gratifying measure of stupefaction, "—you look…stunning, detective." Tempting as it was to respond indifferently to his compliment, to provide a well-needed set down, she instead gave him a placating smile and then turned away, freed her attention to wander out the window. Fixedly, she traced the smudged silhouette of buildings thrown into relief by the waning light. Resolutely _not_ wishing her mother could see her as she was now, resplendent in sumptuous silk. _Not_ thinking of the distinctive rise and fall of her mother's voice as she wistfully compared her to Grace Kelly. Refusing to dwell on all of the " _should have beens"_ , rebelling against the intruding " _could have beens"_ ,and utterly failing on every count.

Just as Montgomery had promised, a profusion of silver-haired big wigs milled about the room, the majority of whom laughed too raucously, were accompanied by disproportionately youthful women, and discriminatingly drifted from one politico-legal cabal to the next. It was strange participating in an event of this magnitude. A constituent, but a nonessential—a wallflower among hothouse roses. But it allowed her to observe the noisy throng uninterruptedly, to accompany Roy as he soft-soaped commissioners, police chiefs, state and city reps, and the occasional judge.

Considerate man that he was, Montgomery always secured her an introduction, casually dropped key professional facts like they were baseball scores— _"oh, yeah, but then we knew in bringing Kate on, as the youngest woman to make NYC detective, that she'd be an asset."_ Artlessly littering his exchanges with similar comments, provoking looks of surprise, admiration as he did so. It was flattering and sobering both. To feel the collective weight of assessing eyes on her, to know the unspoken expectations that were assigned to her career, her potential.

Will hovered at her elbow for much of the night—but whether it was poorly executed flirtation or simply offhanded efforts to settle their differences, she couldn't distinguish. Apparently he was a victim of the political nature of these dandified affairs, had received an invitation tendered by the mayor himself as a gesture of civic hospitality and gratitude toward the bureau, and to refuse would have been insensitive. Obtuse as he was, Kate was surprised he'd had the good grace to accept. And from the way his gaze lingered on her, it was safe to assume he no longer considered this event an imposition. His intentions aside, be they reparative or instigative, she could appreciate the continual supply of drinks and appetizers.

But despite all of it—the glitter and the glamour of the evening, the intoxicating flurry of guests and music and conversation, the novelty of the event—her mind persisted in drifting beyond the events at hand. To her mother. To Alex. Diluting her enjoyment, thinning it out with melancholic thoughts.

She had to respond to him. More than that, she _wanted_ to respond to him. Unshared words and thoughts sat heavy in her mouth, and with her initial anger abated, all she felt was a sense of…loss. Was that right? Had she ever _had_ him? She felt as though something was missing, felt as though she'd lost something. A notion which sounded objectively ludicrous even in her mind. Yeah, she had been irrational and a little impetuous and in an ill-advised move had struck up a correspondence with an absolute stranger, she acknowledged that. She did. But, what gave her pause was…it didn't _feel_ like a mistake. And Kate Beckett had learned long ago to trust her instincts implicitly. As a beat cop she depended on its infallibility for survival, as a detective it guided her investigations unerringly. It hadn't failed her yet, that quiet little voice, and all week she'd been smothering the one sentiment it had issued on repeat— _talk to Alex._

As Will brought her yet another flute of _spumante_ , touching her elbow with unnerving familiarity, she felt something settle in her chest, a sudden release as she acknowledged the voice. As she deferred to it. _Tonight_ , she resolved with an involuntary smile, feeling as light, as effervescent as the shimmering champagne that slipped down her throat

Tonight.

* * *

They left the gala minutes after eleven, and Will chivalrously walked her to the door, face alight with fresh interest and poorly concealed admiration. With a perfunctory goodbye, she darted into her apartment, tactfully suspending the words that threatened to spill free of him— _would you have dinner with me?_ The conversation would be unavoidable, she realized, but tonight she lacked the good grace to let him down easy. To decline on pretext— _it's a bad time for me right now._ Instead, she wended her way through the apartment, skirts hissing pleasantly as they skated across the floor, and proceeded to splay across her bed. Reaching for the letters, a wave of anticipation coursing through her, she hungrily began to read.

Five letters and some minutes later, pages scattered on the crimson expanse of her skirts, she resurfaced from the hypnotic snare of his words. This was…oh, this was willing vulnerability, she swallowed. Him baring the throat of his emotions to her for scrutiny, for inspection. And it kind of bowled her over, the nature of his apology. He knew full well that _sorry_ was a hollow formality for her, issuing reparation instead through a quirky variation on _show me yours I'll show you mine._

He had…surprised her. But then, he always did—rocked her convictions, shattered her presuppositions. And she found that she wanted to return the favor. Longed to set him back on his heels, to affect in him the same dazed wonderment her dress had inspired in Will. So before she could think better of it, she reached for her phone and breathlessly punched in his number with trembling fingers, each purr of the ringtone ratcheting her anticipation higher, higher, higher.

"Talk to me," came a disembodied baritone, lower than she'd expected, gruffer.

And really, she didn't know what she had anticipated—hadn't been cognizant there'd _been_ an expectation—in regards to the cadence and tone of his voice. But somehow, it was nothing like she'd imagined. It was better. For such an eloquent, articulate, almost flowery wordsmith, his tone was surprisingly rough. Sandpaper rasped over hot steel, the coarse weave of a woolen blanket, settling, wrapping around her thickly. But not familiar, she thought with a twinge of disappointment. Nothing that hinted at his identity.

"It's me. It's…Kate," she replied, marginally appalled by how winded she sounded.

A beat, a sharp intake of breath, and then he stutteringly broke the staticky silence. "Kate," he repeated dumbly, obviously shocked, and she felt a mild pang of remorse for her frigid distance.

"Yeah," she continued, her voice warm if not unsteady, nervous, "I…read your letters. Just now, in fact. I've been hoarding them more or less for the past few days."

"While you worked through your rightful frustration?" He surmised ruefully, and she smiled against the receiver.

"Dubious might be a better descriptor, but…you're not wrong," she murmured, quickly warming to this new, rapid exchange of thoughts, no post to slow their pace. "It took a few well-placed words from an concerned an…rather invested third party, but I got there.

"Oh, so you _do_ talk about me," he murmured, just this side of exultant, "I'd wondered if you mentioned the letters to anyone. Or if you'd opted to keep it a dirty little secret."

"If you openly discuss our communications with your mother, I hardly think this qualifies as a a dirty _anything_ , Alex," she scoffed laughingly, and then abruptly sobered at the shape of his name in her mouth, a reminder of why she'd imposed distance in the first place. From the silence on the other line, he was ostensibly tending toward a similar line of reasoning, and they both stewed in a stiff beat of shared awkwardness.

"I know you don't care for the word, so I'll refrain from wielding it, but I hope you know that i _am._ I really, really am, Kate," he provided, sounding so damn woebegone, so endearingly sincere.

"It's—you're apologizing for something I don't even—" she broke off, reaching for fitting words, failing to find anything sufficiently eloquent. So she opted for simplicity instead. "You lied. And I can't stand lies. They're—they're toxic. But I can…I can also understand why you might have chosen to maintain your anonymity, and I can't necessarily fault you for that. For wanting to be unfettered and fresh, a proverbial blank page. I—believe me, I get it."

"Thank you. For that," he rejoined gently, "and…I don't mind, you know. Telling you. If you want to know, I'll make the formal, albeit long overdue, introduction. Probably shock the ever living hell out of you, but…yeah, if you want to know my name just say the word."

 _Yes,_ her mind supplied, _tell me._ The mystery, the intrigue —she'd be lying if she said a resolution didn't beckon sweetly. But Lanie's philosophical musings drowned out her affirmation tauntingly— _what's in a name, Kate?_

"What's in a name?" Alex parroted, barking out a laugh, "those are…overtly Shakespearean ponderings for a late night conversation. Not to mention our first, give-and-take conversation."

 _Jesus Christ_ , she cursed inwardly, knocking her head against the wall in mute exasperation. How had that slipped out? "I…well, I didn't mean to say that. Aloud. But now that it's been verbalized I'll just…"

"Elaborate?" He surmised after a moment, and she hummed in response, scavenging for concise statements, for the eloquence that had summarily deserted her mere sentences before.

"Alex. Is the name you provided me," she began haltingly, picking up speed as she found a rhythm, "R. Alex Rodgers in full—the conspicuous _R_ an enigma even now. And in the course of the…surfeit of letters we've exchanged, you've readily revealed so much more than a hierarchical collection of letters. Anyone can know a name, can refer to an individual by their given or legal title, but those are just designators. And…" how to express this sentiment without coming across as maudlin, she hadn't a clue. So she just set it free. "I feel like I _know_ you. Not because I know your full name, or your legal name, or information a simple web search would reveal, but…because I've seen the struts and foundations of your mind and character. At least…some of them."

"Many of them," he amended, the rough scrape of his voice a little hushed.

"And that's who you _are_ ," she asserted, clutching the phone a little too tight, not sure what exactly she was trying to express but verbally feeling her way, "all these abstruse pieces and memories, your experiences and consequent responses— _that's_ who you are. So…I'm okay with this. With the not knowing. With maintaining the…mystique."

"You are?" He asked, sounding taken aback, a little wary.

"For now," she qualified finally, "though at some point it'd be nice to know which prominent b-lister has been on the receiving end of my various and sundry crises."

"Oh, Kate," he groaned teasingly, "so critical! Self-recrimination hangs poorly on you."

"But you wouldn't know," she shot back, tone verging on coquetry, "would you? How anything… _hangs_ on me."

A strangled sound issued from the other line, and Kate stiffened because that had come out _far_ more overtly sexual in nature than intended.

"And on that unwittingly inappropriate note," she hastily continued, warm cheeks now a match for her vibrant dress, "no search engines."

"No search—" he started to inquire, seemingly lost, so she rushed to clarify.

"No scouring the web for information on one another. If—" _and when_ , she mentally contributed, startling herself, "—we choose to divulge more about our identities, it will be exactly that. A personal revelation. Not an accident precipitated by Yahoo."

"Duly noted," he murmured, and she could hear the contentment, the smile in his voice.

"Good," Kate responded primly and they lapsed into companionate silence, the late hour washing over her, dragging at her eyelids, slackening her mouth.

"Late," he remarked and she huffed. Another pause, and then, "Why'd you read the letters, make the call, Kate? Why tonight?"

"Tonight I was…missing them," the words quiet and candid, her standard reticence softened by drowsiness, by his sonorous voice, by the hazy lamplight. "I was missing them, and…missing you. And your words." She went quiet for a moment, lulled by the rhythmic waft of his breath, "and I can never talk to them again—other than in my head. But you're…still here."

"I'm still here," and the way he said the words made it sound like a vow, like he always would be.

"Yeah," she accepted breathily, unaccountably close to tears and growing drowsier with ever moment.

"Kate?" He finally murmured, punctuating the lacunal still.

"Yeah?"

"Sleep well," he rumbled in her ear, and her mouth curved in reaction.

"You too, Alex."

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _Yikes, this was a epically proportioned post. And I'm not sure what I think of it, though I'm tending toward dissatisfaction_ — _we covered a huge swath of territory in this installment, and they finally got their long-awaited phone conversation, but...I really struggled with it. For whatever reason. If it's not what you guys had in mind, rest assured it's not what I was envisioning either! Regardless, I'm interested to hear your thoughts._

 _And sorry the update was so delayed! In addition to my quasi-writers's block, I rescued a stray dog last Monday and have been busy treating her for mange and anxiously searching for a home, which I found! Hallelujah for my fuzzy friend! So all's well that ends well. :)  
_

 _Up Next...Rick loops Martha in, writes Kate another letter, and initiates a phone conversation._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9 : In Too Deep**

 _ **Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.**_

* * *

Calling this _the morning after_ felt anachronistic, but technically he supposed the term applied. And god knows, he felt like it. After a simple phone call, he had no right to feel as languorous, buoyant, and persistently cheerful as he was, but he did. Because he had talked to Kate Beckett, had basked in the mellow wash of her voice, had traded words and thoughts with thoughtless ease, had listened as her voice grew soporific and husky as she fought sleep. _Intimacy_. That had been the conversational undercurrent, and he found himself combating the urge to read false motives, distorted meaning into the brief—nearly perfunctory, really—exchange that had taken place the night before. Despite the nebulous state of…whatever this was, the stretch and staying power of his sideways grin was making it difficult to finish his cereal, as did the infernal humming he couldn't quite seem to stifle—Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Dean Martin. Happy, sappy, nostalgic tunes that spread through his veins, pouring out of him unbidden and unconsciously, keeping company with his happy, sappy, nostalgic thoughts. With Alexis still on the couch, heavily slumbering under the effects of some highly effective pharmaceutical cocktail, the loft felt abnormally tranquil. Milky ribbons of sunlight streamed in through the window panes, illuminating dust motes, catching the iridescent flecks and variegated striations in the granite island. Swinging his feet out, letting his heels thud back against the barstool's metal structural bar, he shoveled in another mouthful of softening, candied corn flakes, listening in hazy satisfaction as his spoon rebounded tinnily off of his porcelain bowl, pleasantly breaking the placid still. It was a good morning, he decided, despite the pandemonium of the night before.

Spoon halfway to his mouth, a knock issued from the front door, and he strode to his entryway, surprised to see his mother at the door. "It's a little early for you to be up and about," he remarked faintly, shushing her as she swept into the loft. Suddenly aware of his state of semi-disarray, he smoothed back his unkempt hair, and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, wicking away any lingering remnants of his cereal.

"Yes, well," Martha equivocated, voice equally subdued, the flutter of her hands jingling a suffusion of gaudy bangles as she lifted a polka dotted gift bag, "I brought a little something for Alexis. Several items in fact. Just various trivialities that I suspect may go a long way to lifting her beleaguered spirits."

"That's a thoughtful gesture," he conceded, throwing her a smile, nodding in the direction of the sofa as he drifted back to the island and his stagnating cereal. "She's not up yet. Out cold on the couch from the pain meds and the trauma of last night, I suspect. Hasn't stirred a bit this morning. But you're welcome to wait around. There's coffee made and orange juice in the fridge."

Breezing delicately around him in a flurry of fluttering sleeves and kaleidoscopic colors, she poured and fastidiously doctored a mug of steaming Colombian. "How's she faring, poor thing?"

"After a generous helping of ice cream last night, she seemed much improved," he muttered around his spoon, "and when she drifted off out here, I didn't have the heart to move her. Risk waking her."

Taking a leisurely sip, Martha regarded him imperiously, a singular eyebrow rising skyward in displeasure. "Those sugar flakes will rot your teeth out, Richard," she groused, "I don't care if they are _magically delicious._ "

"Duly noted, though you're alluding to that delightful cereal of Gaelic descent— _Lucky Charms_ —while these are _Frosted Flakes_ , mother. Entirely different. The manufacturers make no holistic claims in their endorsement of the product, though I have it on good authority they're wholly incapable of harming me physically. Says right here on the box that they're 'great'. With three _R's_!" He shimmied his eyebrows meaningfully, contrarily shoveled in another spoonful.

"How reassuring," she scoffed petulantly, "but ringing endorsements aside, I still wish you wouldn't. Heaven knows what that detritus is doing to you internally." Treating her to a rebellious grin, he took another mouthful in a wordless taunt.

"Your sophomoric charms are profound, darling," she commented wryly, leaning her hip against the island, her vivid acrylic nails clicking out a rhythmic staccato on her glazed mug.

"Sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear you over the sound of my puerile internal cries, all proclaiming 'I'm an adult and I do what I want'," he teased genially, his smile thinning out at his mother's shrewd look of perusal. "What?"

"It's just…you're very cheerful this morning, darling," she remarked bemusedly, seemingly nonplussed by his good humor, "I don't think I've seen you this happy in…well, in quite a while now."

"Considering you only ever see me in the chaotic aftermath of one of your stage productions or as I'm hurriedly handing off Alexis, I hardly think that's a significant observation," he bristled slightly, feeling unaccountably criticized—and maybe a little cornered, even—by his mother's statement. Martha's forehead knitted together, nettled by his cool dismissal, and she opened her mouth for what he suspected to be a moderately blistering retort, before fall silent as Alexis stirred on the couch, waiting to continue until her movement subsided.

"Well, I'm sorry if you're offended by my appraisal of the impression _you_ have given over the last few months," she allowed, _sotto voce_ , "but that doesn't mean I'm wrong. I'm your mother. I know you, despite your claims to the contrary. Lately you've been dragging around the loft with a kicked puppy expression on your face—and don't you look at me that way, Richard. Your daughter has noticed it, too, so don't even think of ascribing this to my paranoia or tendency for histrionics, and—" she halted her reproof suddenly, narrowing her eyes sagaciously, sweeping him with a measuring look. "Do you have a woman here?"

" _Why_ would I have a woman here, mother? It's the morning after a medical incident involving stitches took place and you think I took up with some woman after my kid knocked out on the couch? Really?" He huffed, indignant.

"Precisely! It's the morning after a traumatic incident in which Alexis received stitches, and you're…well, you're perplexingly chipper. Admittedly, a woman may not be the most valid supposition given the circumstances, but your behavior seems…well, it wouldn't be wholly unexpected. You do have rather a notorious reputation with the ladies, darling." Her lips tipped in a mollifying smile and she lifted her shoulders in an insouciant shrug, seemingly apologetic. Sighing, he pushed away the soggy, inedible remnants of his breakfast, teetering on the verge of indulgent understanding and affronted sensibility, though the former prevailed. Slightly overbearing and prying though she might be, she was still his mother, and he didn't doubt that this rather insulting discourse was well-intentioned. It just…chafed. And it served as a discomfiting reminder of who he was, reanimated those less-than-positive personal facets he was in the midst of revising, exchanging for more favorable constituents. Yeah, he could concede that, if only to himself. He just resented the forcible unearthing of what he considered his erstwhile self when he had broken new ground—though, granted, this transformation was fairly recent. So how could his mother know? She was operating on a limited understanding, a historical concept of who he was, and he couldn't necessarily fault her for that.

"Yes, well…no. I don't have a woman here, past predilections notwithstanding. And I'm…in the process of…turning over a proverbial new leaf. In regard to relationships, specifically," he admitted candidly, albeit stiltingly, "I think for my own sake, and for Alexis' sake, it's time to find something genuine. _Somebody_ genuine."

Tilting her head, she considered him with warm eyes, lifting her mug to cradle it against her polychromatic chest. "I'm glad to hear it," she granted, her voice startled, and then after a beat proceeded in wry tones, "at the rate you were going, only an infectious disease, identity theft, or a severely misguided second marriage would have stopped you from man-whoring your way across all of Manhattan—upper and lower."

"Your confidence in my integrity is inspiring, mother," he snipped back, glowering.

"Warranted, you mean. Your integrity has long been specious, darling."

"Not anymore," he maintained stubbornly. "But just because I'm changing gears, so to speak, don't expect me to entirely write off romance."

"Of course not," she scoffed, taking another draw of her tepid coffee.

"Someday, when some _thing_ , some _one_ comes along, when fate intervenes and the universe conspires to bring me to the right woman, or the right woman to me…" he trailed off imprecisely, continuing the line of thought internally— _the letters will prove the foundation of the relationship I was always meant to have._ Oh, he startled at that, frowning, because… _damnit._ That was unanticipated. By him. Though clearly Weldon had astutely seen through his embarrassingly thin emotional smokescreen.

"Speaking of writing, and romance, and fate," Martha hummed, abruptly pulling him from his musings, her gaze sharply perceptive, "this new leaf wouldn't have anything to do with your mysterious pen pal, would it?"

Pinned beneath all of that keen, maternal perusal, he had an unsettling flash of insight into the panic hooked bait worms must experience. Exerting all his will to keep from squirming in discomfort, he shifted his gaze evasively, hedgingly. "My new leaf is independent of all postal influences. Or, mostly. I mean…the effect is nominal at best."

"How convincing," she sniffed, rolling her eyes at his weak prevarications. Yeah, not his finest attempt.

"Would it be so bad if it was? Due in part to Kate and the letters, I mean?" He demanded, trying not to let his defensiveness bleed through.

"No," she allowed, "but, as I said before, I just want you to be… _careful_ sounds so patronizing."

"Then let's just skip the impending relational lecture."

" _Wise_. That's the word," she stated, firmly ignoring his attempted diversions. "I'm sure she's a lovely person, and if it's propelling you, helping you to _turn leaves_ , then by all means, continue the correspondence. But I'm hoping you're not reading more into this than exists. At least on her end. I just don't want you to pigeonhole yourself. To turn up your nose at available, agreeable women because one day, something may or may not happen with your pen pal. It's the romantic equivalent of…Schroedinger's Cat, darling."

"Available. Agreeable. What scintillating recommendations." Standing, he took his bowl to the sink, rinsed it out with a surly sigh.

"Surely there must be a woman you know—and personally, in the real world, I mean—that struck your fancy at some point," she straightened, pivoted to face him, brows raising in exasperation.

"And I wish your certainty was the deciding factor in my relational prospects, but I've been in a rut lately, if I'm being honest."

"What about that delightful woman you met at the gala? Your editor—Gina, was it? She seemed like quite a catch, and interested to boot. Why not ask her out to lunch, see where things lead?" Oh, god. Matchmaking. Not only did he _not_ need this added complication, but his mother was categorically lamentable as a matchmaker. In regards to her own love life as well as others she deigned needful of assistance.

"No," he replied flatly, cutting off the faucet's flow.

"For heaven's sake, why not?"

"Professionally, she's precisely what I need—controlling, regimented, horrifyingly meticulous. But personally? No, she…she hits all the wrong notes for me. Too…frigid." His mouth twisted in mild distaste at the recollection of their work related interactions, and he busied himself with wiping down the counter to avoid facing his mother.

"Frigid?" She exclaimed, taken aback. "Richard, the woman is stunning, has a flourishing career, and an IQ well out of the double digits—which is worlds better than your former paramours."

"Be that as it may, mother," he sighed, turning to confront her, soggy sponge still in hand, "she's not the woman for me."

"Alright, alright," she lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender, "it's your life, it's your choice. I just…if she's what you need professionally, despite your claims to the contrary, she may be an ideal romantic counterpart, darling. Opposites attract for a reason. Sameness in romance is tiresome, redundant even. But if you hold similar interests and want the same things out of life, approaching them from different angles is simply…complementary. It can be an asset, not a detriment."

At that moment, to his resounding relief, Alexis roused from her blanketed nest, raising up to peer owlishly at them over a surfeit of cushions. Affection surged up in him, drowning out the vestiges of consternation his mother had stirred up. Her bright hair protruded in a frowzy halo and the tender skin beneath her chin looked puffy, swollen around the edges of the gauze. "Morning," she greeted blearily, "what're you doing here, Grams?"

"I brought you some surprises!" Martha declared brightly, gathering her gift and floating over to the sofa, conversation fortunately adjourned for the moment.

* * *

Before she left, Martha came to stand in the threshold of his office, leaning against the door jamb, wearing an inscrutable expression. "I'm sorry," she murmured kindly, eyes penitent now, "if I pry overmuch, if I'm too pushy. I just…worry for you."

Fingers relaxing against the keyboard, he pushed away from the desk, from the engrossing snare of his latest _Storm_ manuscript and gave her his full attention. "I know," he acknowledged, appreciating the apology, softening under her regard. "I know, and I feel like I should…explain a little more about Kate? About this really unconventional thing we have going on. We…talk. Actually talk, not just about trivial things. Deep subjects, dark personal divulgences. We… _talk._ And I feel understood. By her. In a way I haven't since…" _since Kyra,_ he didn't say. "In a long time. And I hold no illusions that this is more than it is, we're just friends. Socially speaking, we're hardly acquainted. But in all the ways that count, we know each other."

He paused, flicked his eyes up to meet Martha's striking gaze, gave her a half smile. "She called me last night. That's why I was so sickeningly happy. And the conversation flowed as easily as the discourse in our letters. It was all seamless, this great, effortless verbal exchange. She was funny and intuitive and intelligent and…well, she could probably make a living doing voiceovers or commentating for audio books, her tone and timbre are smooth and rich—the audible equivalent of a smoky red blend. I mean…I don't know what to tell you, mother. Except for, I like her. Genuinely, profoundly like her. She—her words, the shape of her thoughts, it all—fascinates me."

"I truly understand that. I do," she responded, canting her head to one side in contemplation. "Just…make sure that it's _her_ , who she _is_ , that fascinates you. And not simply the mystery she embodies. I know how you love secrecy, the thrill of the discovery, but just think long and hard before continuing this. Make certain that the eventual discovery won't stamp out the bulk of your interest. You would never do it knowingly, I realize that. Your heart is good and you always mean well, darling. But…" _you can be mercurial, you struggle to commit, you flit from woman to woman,_ he could almost hear all of the concerns she tactfully withheld.

"It's her, mother. I swear. Not the idea of her, not the enigma. Her. And I couldn't…I won't be the one to walk away from this," he insisted lowly, fervidly.

After a few charged beats of mutually tense scrutiny, she nodded once, tapped the doorframe with her nails, beamed at him, her eyes warm and soft. "Well, then. Look at you turning over leaves."

* * *

He spent the next two days in the throes of equivocation—to call or not to call. They hadn't discussed their successive communications, the form and fashion of them, what the boundaries were and where they lay. Was her midnight phone call an impulsive, independent occurrence, or had she intended it to establish new relational parameters, to set the tone of their future method of contact? Yeah, he kind of hated this. The uncertainty, this infernal dread that he, inevitably, would misstep and wreck it all to the sixth or seventh circle of hell. Given the way his most recent relationships had devolved, it seemed a predictable outcome—screwing up royally. _New leaf,_ he coached himself, resolved that this time would be different, regardless of the direction their relationship took. Friendship, romance, or other, he was determined that this, that _she_ , would remain in his life, an unshakeable source of permanence. At least, if he had anything to say about it. The fluidity and profundity of their conversations, the ease with which they clicked, it was a _rarity._ She was such a real thing in a world riddled with artifice.

Which he was all too reminded of as he mindlessly worked his way through a bland garden salad, enduring yet another long-winded lunch meeting with Gina in which he was struggling to retain any semblance of focus. With alarming enthusiasm, Gina reiterated the submission deadlines detailed in the exhaustive binder of Black Pawn materials displayed on the table, and he dully identified the different lettuces remaining in his bowl to while away the time—Romaine, Green Chard, Mizuna, Lollo Rosa, Radicchio. Oh, Arugula! Bitter, but refreshing, and so often regrettably eschewed in favor of milder counterparts like Butter Lettuce or Baby Spinach. A shame really.

"So we're in agreement? You're on track to have the final installment in for edits before then?" Gina's voice faded back in. _Oh, shit._ He had nothing intelligible to contribute, barring the identification of greens.

"Um…so, run that date by me one more time if you will? And maybe just start from the top to make sure I got it all," he enjoined with a sheepish, crooked grin.

Which apparently had an antithetical effect, because all his feeble attempt at charm earned him was a scathing look. Sighing, she pressed her index fingers against the bridge of her perfect, patrician nose, shook her head until her burnished curls swayed pendulously. "Rick, I know you hate the technicalities and esoteric, editorial details. I get it. But the sooner we get through this, the sooner you can get out of here, away from me, and back to writing. Or stalling, depending on the day."

He stiffened at the trace of accusation in her tone, features tightening. "I don't…want to get away from _you_ , you realize. Just the pedantic nature of _this_." He gestured loosely at the documentation that littered their tabletop.

"Please," she snorted, flicked her eyes to him, quelling the weak denials that sat heavy in his mouth. "The blonde hair lulls people into a sense of complacency, but I'm no idiot. For whatever reason, you…dislike me. And that chafes, I won't lie. But above all I'm a professional. I can overlook it, but only if you can do me the courtesy of respecting my time and expertise, personal feelings aside."

Well, _damn_ , he blinked. That had been painfully succinct, and, he acceded, grudgingly admirable. Until this conversation, Gina presented as little more than a polished cog in the Black Pawn corporate machine—cool, effective, superficial, vaguely obsequious. But that little flash of pain at her admission, that stiff-necked pride, her professional tenacity…it lent an edge of sincerity to her otherwise frigid repose. And now, as she surveyed him aloofly, he felt a pang of guilt. At having undervalued her humanity, her feelings. Being remote and perfectly coiffed didn't make _her_ a bad person. But judging her so harshly for those traits did make _him_ something of an ass.

Wincing, he cleared his throat, folded his hands and listed toward her. " _I'm sorry_ seems a feeble expression, and I've been told by a reliable source that as a phrase it's practically lost all meaning for most people. But mine isn't an empty apology. I…truly am sorry for being such a jerk, and if you're willing, could we just…falling back on a tired aphorism, turn over a new leaf? I've been doing that a lot lately, and it seems to be playing out nicely so far."

An uncomfortable silence ensued as she drained the remnants of her white wine, gingerly set the long stemmed crystalware back on the tabletop, and gave a little sigh. "I'm not averse to the idea," she dipped her head in concession, paused, and then turned a smug smile on him. "But I do have several conditions."

"Okay, shoot," he shrugged, the picture of cool nonchalance, but inwardly fortified himself for whatever terms she laid out. God knows what creative literary punishments she had in store.

"First, as I mentioned before, you show me the proper level of respect—that befitting an associate who has nothing but your best interests and the perpetuity of your career in mind."

"Done. Absolutely," he acquiesced, "what else?"

"Two, you firmly, sans complaints, adhere to the schedule for chapter drafts and final submissions as well as the itinerary for in-state book readings and signings."

"Agreed, with the proviso that if a truly justifiable delay arises, you will be understanding enough to provide an extension."

"That's perfectly reasonable," she deferred, waiting a beat before forging ahead in something of a rush. "Third. You accompany me to the annual PEN Literary gala. Black Pawn politely, resolutely compelled me to attend, and I'm too busy to actively look for a date, frankly. So it's either you or I'm flying solo, Rick. What do you say?"

He stared at her, a little dazed by the request. "Do I… _have_ a say? Or will a refusal ensure our professional relationship bears an unsettling resemblance to a Stephen King novel?"

"Well, no," she shrugged, huffing a little laugh, "I'm not stooping to blackmail. Yet. Consider the third condition more…request than stipulation."

"Gracious of you," he muttered, mentally turning the situation this way and that, examining it from various angles, mulling over his limited options. On the one hand, he had no interest in attending a third gala in as many months. In spending an entire evening with Gina, whose company he tolerated but failed to truly appreciate. In having to disinter his itchy tux from the back of his closet. In having to make potentially complicated—not to mention costly—babysitting arrangements for Alexis. It just…held no appeal, the idea. But conversely, he recognized the reparative potential of the night in question. Escorting Gina could go a long way toward smoothing over the relational snags he'd inflicted, like it or not, which would pave the way for far more tractable professional interactions. And his mother's concerned counsel played loop-like through his mind—differences could be a complement, not a detriment. If nothing more, it would be a relief to call her an ally, to cultivate a tenuous, albeit complementary, friendship. He could do that, he surmised.

"Okay. Yes, I'll accompany you," he finally assented, surprising himself, his tone gracious if not somewhat reserved.

"Excellent," she returned briskly, giving him a brief but brilliant smile, "I'll forward you all the information this evening. Black tie, of course. A little more than three weeks from today. And I'll inform Black Pawn that you plan on attending—tickets run rather extortionate, and I doubt they'll balk at footing the bill for Richard Castle. It's excellent representation, after all."

"Thank you," he said simply, and she raised her water glass in mute response.

* * *

Upon returning to the loft, he summarily paid Rina's quieter, but equally reliable childcare counterpart Annabeth, and indulged in a moment of decompression, ducking into his office to settle at his desk, to internally sift through the events of the meeting. Mid-mental-recap, Alexis appeared in his doorway, made her way over to him and wordlessly climbed into his lap, the featherlight weight of her head coming to rest against his chest. She smelled like strawberry shampoo and cherry Bonnebell lipgloss, and his heart clenched as he sought to capture the moment, etch it into his mind. "What did you and Annabeth do while I was gone?" He murmured against her French braid, clasping one of her sticky, diminutive hands in the broad expanse of his own.

"Well," she sighed, her slender shoulders knocking against his ribs, "we made grilled cheeses—she used the pepper jack cheese and banana peppers just like I asked. They were pretty good, but yours are better. And then we drew for a while and Annabeth showed me how to make better flowers—she's really _good_ at drawing, dad. Said she wants to go to school for art one day. And then after that, I went to my room and read some of _Peter Pan_."

"Ah, the venerable Mr. Barrie," he smiled, feeling his anxieties unspool as she hummed inanely, as the sound resonated purr-like against his chest. "He made a beautiful world, didn't he. One comprised of faith, and trust, and pixie dust."

"Wish it were real," she groused and he huffed at that, hand coming up to cup the back of her head.

"And if only that was all it took to live well—faith, trust, magical dust. Instead, we have to put in a lot of hard work, and even then, despite our best efforts, we sometimes manage to mess things up. But you know, I think apologies are the real world version of pixie dust. They make everything better, make you a little…lighter," he finished slowly, realizing even as he spoke that such abstract concepts were likely a little high flown for an eight-year-old.

After a moment, she shifted in his lap, turning to peer at him with preternatural wisdom, all wide blue eyes and shrewd insight. "Did you talk to your friend?"

"The one I've been writing?" He clarified, and she frowned, nodded in response. "Yeah, I did. And you were right, you know. I apologized, we talked it out, and now we're okay."

The shallow indent between her eyes smoothed out at his admission. "That's really good."

"It is," he remarked brightly, catching her up in his arms as he stood, ignoring her giggled protests. "Now, what do you say we pop in a movie? Make some popcorn and just kick back, you and me?"

"Ice cream, too?" She pleaded, lacing her arms around his neck.

"At this rate you're gonna turn into a cone, kid," he informed her with mock concern, wishing he could freeze this moment, enamored by the impish smile she turned on him. "Ah, I guess I'd love you either way."

"Yup," she dipped her head in response, popping the word brightly, smacking it out like a piece of pink gum. "I know."

* * *

They spent the remainder of their day building a sumptuous blanket fort—high thread count sheets and woven cotton coverlets comprised the walls and ceilings, thick down comforters and overstuffed pillows cushioned the floor—and then burrowed themselves in the fluffy expanse they had crafted. At Alexis' request, ensconced in their cocoon with bowls of white cheddar popcorn, they worked their way through two Star Wars movies before finally adjourning for dinner, a simple affair—baked chicken and rice with a side of broccoli. After eating, it was a rapid descent into leveling exhaustion for Alexis, who still seemed to be under the rather potent effects of her pain meds, her body sluggishly filtering out the sedatives. Walking her through her bedtime ablutions, he managed to get her into bed, dressed in fresh nightclothes, hair and teeth brushed, face still damp from the attentions of a warm washcloth, fresh gauze square in place. And then the residual evening hours were his to spend, he sighed relievedly, wending his way into the inviting recesses of his dim study.

Fingers hovering over keys shiny from overuse, he strained for a sentence, Derek hovering in his mind's eye, begging for words, but the character trajectory proving too blurry to write into definition. Excellent. Just what he needed. A literary roadblock. Pushing away from his desk with a groan, he swiveled to peer out the window, dully surveying the neon technicolor specks of signage in the distance, the tangerine glow of street lamps, the oscillating wash of headlights from below. Tonight's outlook for plot headway was looking far from auspicious, inspiration glaringly absent. Drowned out by his motley thoughts, no doubt—Kate, Gina, his mother, galas, letters, phone calls. They distracted him, clouded his minded, crowded out Storm and dampened the igniting energy that enabled him to breathe believable life into his characters.

Shoving a hand through his hair, he turned back to his desk, smoothed his palms over the cool wood, fingers tracing the minute rise and fall of the dark grain. What he really wanted was to talk to Kate, to let the honeyed alto of her voice wash over him again, to discuss inanities and complexities both until his voice grew husky from overuse. But she might not want that, he grimaced. Might not appreciate the intrusion of an unsolicited phone call. And he just…hesitated. To presume. So rather than call her up the way he wanted, he reached for a crisp sheet of stationary, and let his thoughts flow unhampered through a marble fountain pen.

 **Dear Kate,**

 **Hearing from you the other day proved a much needed surprise—I'm not certain if you could infer my thoughts from our brief conversation, but I was, in a word, elated. That being said, never allow odd hours or lingering reservations to prevent you from calling. If circumstances permit, I'll always answer. And in regards to our titillating phone exchange, what does this all mean moving forward? If that request for clarification paints me in a clingy, needy light, that's truly unfortunate. It's less the junior high girl in me, and more the tentative, over-cautious man that wants to ensure I don't tread on your proverbial toes. If calling me was a one-time thing, if you simply needed the comfort of another human voice or to substantiate my existence, I understand and will refrain from reciprocating your call. But, I…enjoyed it. Which seems a lackluster term, I know. Far more than enjoyed it, really. Talking with you felt unaffected, startlingly effortless, as though I'd known you for years and not just weeks, as though we were picking up the threads of a previous conversation and not starting from relational ground zero. If you're amenable, let me know. I want to call, but more than that, I don't want to push.**

 **In terms of what I've been up to lately—the pace of my life has always been rather breakneck, but over the past few days it's also increased in complication. My daughter had a relatively minor accident which required stitches, my mother is determined to direct the proceedings of my personal life, professionally I'm operating under some fairly strenuous deadlines, and my coworker—in whom I have no interest—artfully negotiated (i.e. coerced) my escort to a formal event. If it sounds like I'm complaining, it's because I am. My sincere apologies on that front—that you're on the receiving end of my whinging. When I'm certain you have far more constructive ways of investing your time! And far more serious personal matters to which you're attending. Speaking to that end, I hope it's not untoward to ask about your father. He often comes to mind—though, admittedly, you feature with greater frequency—and I hope he's improving. For his sake as well as your own.**

 **On an off note, my daughter is in the midst of Neverland, reading about the escapades of the Lost Boys and their figurehead, the inimitable Peter Pan. I'm not certain if you know anything about the novel's author, J.M. Barrie, but his life was comprised of a series of tragic losses—his venerated older brother, his cuckolding wife, the cancer-stricken love of his life, several of his beloved wards, children who happened to be his inspiration for the Lost Boys. The man invested and lost, invested and lost, put his heart on the line time after time only to have it quashed beneath the heel of fate. And despite all of that, he managed to produce one of the most innocent, enchantingly childlike stories the world has seen to date. It inscribes its way into the hearts of readers because it represents everything we ever wanted and was lost to us—magic, the perpetuity of youth, hope, separation from the world. His emotional resilience astounds me, frankly, and I doubt if I could respond in the same way, with the same quiet forbearance. In regards to the title character of his paramount work, Barrie was once quoted as saying that** _ **"**_ _ **I made Peter by rubbing the five of you together, as savages with two sticks produce a flame"**_ **, 'the five of you' being, of course, the Davies children, of whom he would one day acquire custody** _ **.**_ **Speaking for myself, i long for a similar inspiration, for a spark to reanimate my professional life. My daughter is a constant source of joy, of childish enthusiasm and wide-eyed wonderment. But that doesn't jive with the nature of my work. I trust that I'll find it one day, that spark. And I'll go so far as to say that I would classify you as a spark—a fresh, glimmering ember in the sameness that, until now, colored my personal life** _ **.**_ **It's all too easy to become disenchanted with our existence, and I want to…thank you. For reintroducing a sense of magic to mine. So, if I may, what's your spark? What ignites you? Drives you to pursue success, achieve your ambitions? What propelled you to Stanford, pushed you beyond, to where you are now?**

 **It's hideously late, and I have a thing in the morning, so I'll cut this a bit short. But I'll leave you with a quote of appreciation, a reminder of how much I appreciate your friendship—your authenticity—especially in a sphere where prominence equates to personal worth, one that's filled with fawning, insincere individuals more interested in gaining a beneficial association than crafting a genuine relationship. It's an extract to which I relate, having a little more of the Pan in me than is healthy, and more recognition than I deserve. Or even desire.**

" **Stars are beautiful, but they may not take part in anything, they must just look on forever."**

 **Fame isn't all its cut out to be, so thank you for grounding me. For providing some much needed normalcy. For forgiving me the concealment of my name. And for allowing me to take part in your life, even if remotely.**

 **Yours,**

 **Alex**

 **P.S.**

 **I'm not self-identifying as 'beautiful', so please, do me a favor? Don't take that statement of perceived vanity and run with it—I'm not excluded because I'm a vain, preening peacock, I swear.**

After dropping the letter in the post the following morning, he spent the next several days busying himself—laboriously hammering out meager portions of the impending chapter draft, entertaining Alexis with day trips and exotic culinary creations, attending a promotional evening event arranged by Gina. And a week or so later, headed home from dropping Alexis at a play date, summarily collecting the mail, he finally got his response. Tamping down the thrill that swept through him, reserving his anticipation for later, he returned to the loft and poured himself into writing for the duration of the afternoon, only stopping to fetch his kid, who was abuzz with the glee of companionship and a popsicle-facilitated sugar rush belied by blue-ringed lips. Punctuating Alexis' narrative of her activities with outlandish questions and giggle-eliciting comments, they made swift time back to Broome St., and peremptorily ordered a double cheese with olives and pepperoni from _Lombardi's_. With Alexis languishing on the couch in the drowsy throes of an impending sugar coma, Rick gratefully seized his window, quietly palmed the unopened letter, and padded softly to his desk.

Flicking open the envelope flap, he sank into his chair and scanned the pithy response with a wry smile.

 _Dear Alex,_

 _No one excludes people for being vain, preening peacocks, you know? They exclude people who falsely attest to being vain, preening peacocks. The other peacocks can see right through the pretense. Maybe you're not a peacock at all. Perhaps that's the issue at play. Wasn't it also Barrie that said "if you cannot teach me to fly, teach me to sing"? You've exercised authenticity with me—barring your name, of course—so rather than preening, or flying, as it were, why not try a different tack? Change the soundtrack to your life? Follow the beat of your own drum?_

 _And as to my spark—as so mystifyingly inscribed in my long-lost book, it's truth. Justice. That's the spark that lights my way and drives me._

 _Renoir, Peter Pan, Rorschach, Peacock, R.A. Rodgers, Alex, or other—feel free to call me._

 _Kate_

 _What a charge_ , he grinned. So forthright, a fantastic continuance of his references and motifs. Carefully refolding the paper, he stowed her response with the other missives, fighting to calm the surging cadence of his pulse. A rapid tempo instigated by the thought of tonight, of the second call.

* * *

Between the two of them, he and Alexis polished off all but a slice of the pizza—though, full disclosure, the preponderance of polishing had fallen to him. Sufficiently full of pizza, they played a game of Monopoly Jr. until Alexis' teary eyed, tremor-inducing yawns provided a natural conclusion to the evening. After ensconcing her sleepy, pajama-clad form in in the plush twin bed, Rick poured himself a tumbler of fragrant, amber scotch and settled in his office chair. He withdrew his cell from the soft, worn pocket of his jeans, and after a steadying draw of air, dialed her number. Waited tautly as the phone warbled, hand tightening on the phone at the telltale crackle, a shuffle on the other line, a sharp greeting, her warm tone honed to something fierce—"Beckett."

Oh, that was hot. All flagrant professionalism and heat. He liked it.

"I know," he rejoined, and the speed with which her energy shifted was nearly palpable.

"Alex," all breathy excitement, quietly pleased.

"Yeah, I'm—sorry it took me so long to make contact. With the letter, seesawing in regards to the phone call."

"No," she cut in, voice certain, "it's all—it's all good. You called. And the consideration you showed is nice."

"Unexpected, you mean," he laughed as she sputtered something inarticulate before harnessing her thoughts.

"Well, historically you've been the instigator in this whole…exchange. And it stood to reason the phone calls would be no different. I just—I just assumed. And I should have been more direct."

"So, this is okay, then? Carte blanche on phone calls?" He elucidated, sipping at his scotch, savoring the bloom of warmth that seared through his throat, his chest, his stomach. "'Cause I like the freedom it affords. And it's a sight more expedient than post—even if letters _are_ the OG in regards to communication."

"There _is_ a certain winsome quality to letter-writing," the purr of her voice ratcheted up the heat initiated by his Glenmorangie, and he swallowed convulsively.

"For sure," he concurred, tone suddenly a little husky, "and don't think simply because we've kicked off these phone conversations that I'll totally eliminate written correspondences. At least not on my part."

"Good. That's…I'm glad."

A beat of collective silence passed, comfortable for all it was wordless. "I…I didn't think to even ask," he began, shattering the still, "but is this a good time? Are you—did I interrupt anything?"

"I needed the break," she admitted following the sibilant roar of a heavy sigh. A pause, and then she pushed ahead. "The—the subject matter of the…case I'm currently working on has been…" she trailed off, and he delicately retrieved the threads.

"Difficult?" A weary hum of response followed his supposition.

"Harrowing," she refined tightly. "Not enough sleep, either, which you know…it amplifies everything. Exponentially increases your frustration, decreases your coping skills."

"You're clearly capable of shouldering whatever this is," he asserted, concerned for a moment she might bristle at the exhortation, and then relieved at her soft response, words laced with gratitude.

"Thanks for not saying _sorry_."

"We went over this. It's old hat, really. Kate 101. Buzzword numero uno. So, no, I won't say _sorry_ , but I will say…I hope things improve for you."

"Me, too," she breathed out, her fatigue bleeding through the line now.

God, he wished they were conducting this discussion face-to-face. His enterprising author's mind was doing that inventive thing, filling in the gaps with substitutional provisions. Just like he'd done with Sherri. Words converging to involuntarily daub out a technicolor portrait of her face, her form. It was all hazy pastels, blurred at the edges like a diaphanous watercolor. But just from her voice, he envisioned dark hair and eyes, a prima ballerina with moto boots and smoky eyeliner, a captivating study in contradictions.

And before he could reconsider, he broached the niggling thought cautiously, though with far greater equanimity than he felt. "Is it…would you consider it forward if I asked for a physical description?"

"Alex, is that some covert way of asking what I'm wearing?" She tossed back coyly, the quick rejoinder pulling his lips into a smirk. He hadn't imagined this facet of her personality, hadn't anticipated it, but he _savored_ it. Her voice was all sultry charm and flirtation, wreaking exquisite havoc on his calm.

"So, you're gonna play it that way, huh?"

"Play it what way?" She hedged teasingly, shamelessly baiting him.

"Well, then," he huffed a laugh, "allow me to lead by example. I'm…not bad. At least, not that I've been told. 'Ruggedly handsome' is the descriptor often bandied about. Tall." He added as an afterthought, because perplexingly, that trait seemed especially relevant for many women. Tall, hyperactive, and wordy—what a winning combination.

"Tall. How exotic."

The way that word fluidly rolled off her tongue— _exotic_ —skidded along the length of his spine, dazed him a little, prompted words without forethought. "Like a giraffe?"

"What?" She snorted, and he felt a flush radiate from his neck to his hairline.

"Never mind," he recanted, flustered at his seeming inability to finesse his way through this exchange. Wondering where and when his verbal sophistication had deserted him. "Pinball brain—sometimes words just _pop_ out and my mouth is too slow to keep pace with mind, and then I say things like 'giraffe'. Inexplicably. Just…one thought to the next to the next, you know? So, yeah. 'Tall', because…Giraffes have gotta—they've gotta be pretty damn tall to reach those Acacia trees. And 'exotic' because…Africa."

 _Damnit, Rick._

"Anyways. _Tall_ ," he repeated woodenly, fully aware he'd just exhibited all the conversational agility of a panda and fighting back a wave of self-loathing for it. "Tell me something. About yourself?"

"Also tall," she drawled amusedly, and he could hear her stretch of a grin in her words. "Also exotic. And…reasonably attractive."

"That's what you're going with? That's the glowing descriptor bandied about in connection with your name?" He inquired dryly, taking a generous mouthful of scotch to soothe his fraying nerves.

"Well, more often than not it's phrases like 'How long have you been modeling?' and 'Sweet Jesus, would you look at that hot piece of insert-crude-anatomical-term-here', but who's keeping track?"

"Me," he admitted hoarsely, ruefully considering the as-of-yet ineffectual liquor. Nothing. He was still red-faced, still fighting a stomachful of butterflies the size of pigeons.

Laughing at his confession, she justified her initial hesitation. "Repeating such ringing endorsements of my person seemed self-promoting. But I'm talking to Mr. Ruggedly Handsome, so I guess I shouldn't worry unduly about humbleness of spirit, huh?"

"Right," he barked laughingly, passed a clammy palm along the back of his feverish neck. "I just…was wondering. Since we talk. Frequently. And as I'm operating on the assumption that our talks will continue, it's just…nice to know _something_ corporeal to solidify my very nebulous idea of you. The fuzzy image in my head."

"And what do you see?" She prompted quietly.

"Hmm…" his eyes drifted shut, conjuring up that pointillist vision from before, tracing the blowsy edges of his blind postulation. "How do I see you? Elegant. Clean lines and sophistication. A luminous presence despite your mysterious reserve, one that draws people magnetically. Moth-like to some inner flame. When you speak, you garner attention—your voice is…sonorous, French-cocoa-rich. Like a slow drip coffee or ribbons of caramel. But that's not why heads turn at your words, why ears perk, attuned to what you have to say. Your sentences are laden with no small measure of hard-won wisdom, an understanding that bespeaks pain. It's an undercurrent, it's just a trace, but it enables you to empathize. And others sense that, feel it in your parlance. I want to say you're beautiful—your words alone determined that identifier, at least for me—but physically, societally, I think you're beautiful, too. Despite your deftly humorous attempts at deflection, I think you know you're beautiful, but you don't capitalize on your looks. Not when the shape of your mind, the profile of your inner strength, the delicacy of your wit and resilience are rarer assets by far. And because you have too much pride in who you are to let that be your defining quality. All the same, I envision…dark eyes. Sad, but fervent. Full of that truth you chase. Your spark. And dark hair, to match the hue of your voice. Rich, shadowy. And…yeah. That's what I see. _Who_ I see."

The line was severe in its silence, not even her breaths to pepper the still. As he started to form her name, make certain she was still there, her voice crackled to life. "You should be a writer," she murmured, subdued, and he swallowed back the admission that hung heavy in his throat.

"Kind of you," was the inanity he settled on, feeling the prickling edges of guilt meander lazily through his gut.

"It's always fascinating," she prevaricated, "seeing yourself through someone else's eyes. Or ears, in this case."

"True, that. Jumping back to that case you mentioned," he digressed, seizing on a stray thought, "is there any way you would…tell me more about the particulars of what it is you do? I think it's safe to assume law of some sort, though I can't determine which sub-branch—judicial or law enforcement. Anyways, it's all speculation. If you're not comfortable sharing—"

"Detective," she chimed in, the divulgence a little hushed but stunning him speechless all the same. "And that's all I'll say for now. No details on which department or precinct."

"That's—" he stammered, struggling to marshal his thoughts, "—well, it's _hot_. Is what I was going to say. But beyond that, it's—it's an impressive feat. You're…well, I'm speculating again, but you _seem_ young for detective work." The noncommittal hum she returned for his remark merely served to pique his interest further, of course. "Fascinating. An unpresuming law enforcement wunderkind who rocketed from Stanford to…you know, I was never made privy to the nature of your departure. Graduation, matriculation…exasperation."

Only silence in response.

"Yet another mystery," he intoned appreciatively. "And let me just say, there's a spellbinding personal story somewhere in there—likely threaded through the entirety of your academic and professional vocations. Of why someone with your obvious intellect and ambition would choose law enforcement as opposed to a higher profile career, one with more visibility, more recognition."

For a long moment, he wasn't certain she'd even respond, but her voice finally issued through the earpiece, striated with that enigmatic edge he loved, "Stick around long enough and maybe you'll find out."

"Like I said, Kate—I'm still here. And fully planning on overstaying my welcome."

"I can live with that," he had to strain to catch the words, the hushed acceptance.

"Are you sure you don't want to know?" He inquired, fingers skimming the etched glass of his tumbler. "If you want to know my name, just…say the word."

"I can live _without_ that." This statement came out more confident, tone bolder.

"But you'll let me know? When you can't? _Without,_ I mean."

"Yes," she conceded, and he bit back a sigh, tried to smother the nervousness that always accompanied the thought of revealing his name. The diverse array of reactions it had the potential to inspire.

"Good. I'm…I didn't know how much I needed this. The conversation." _You,_ his mind supplied, prompting a spike in his already thudding pulse.

"I needed this, too," she disclosed simply, and he then heard her shifting, shuffling on the other line, a man's gravelly voice muffled in the background. Kate responding. And then she was back, murmuring into the mouthpiece. "Hey, Alex, I've…work. I've gotta—"

"Go," he told her lightly, his words warm, "kick ass now and we'll pick this back up some other time."

"Until later," she assured coolly, a reserve in her tone that he knew she must employ in the workplace, a hint of steel where there'd only been informality, amity before. And then the line went dead, and a sigh shuddered through him, and he was left wishing inanely for a roadmap, for some certainty. Wishing that he knew where this wending, winding thing would lead.

Because damnit, he groaned, Weldon was right. He was already in so deep. Thoroughly subsumed in the idea of Kate Beckett. Far, far too deep.

Leagues and fathoms and chasms deep.

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _Another long one! This took longer than anticipated_ — _I'm in the midst of packing for an out-of-state move, and it tends to blot out the peripheral aspects of life! This installment is almost entirely pure fluff. Like, marshmallows have nothing on this chapter. But you guys suffer like champs through Kate's darker, angstier POVs, and I'm hoping this offsets the intensity of the other chapters.  
If this update was a little ambling or slow, sorry about that! I had a bit of trouble determining where it should end up_— _again, not wholly satisfied, but I tend toward unhealthy levels of perfectionism, I know. Despite all that, I_ _managed to find something of a stable plot-thread and semi-conclusion. Hallelujah. As always, you guys are_ _**amazing** , and I appreciate every review, favorite, and follow. Thanks for adding to the joy of writing this story!_

 _Up Next...Kate updates Lanie, makes contact with her father, works the case, talks more with Alex, and artfully dances around Sorenson's blatant interest._


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10 : Why This?**

 _ **Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.**_

* * *

Blinking her way out of the amniotic still of the stale break room, trying to reacquire her equilibrium after her conversation with Alex, Kate strode purposefully in the direction of the bullpen with Sorenson close at her heels. Snippets of their banter played through her mind, the way his voice broadened and softened and mellowed in the midst of his prose-like, lyrical illustration. _French cocoa and inky drip coffee_.

Despite herself and the hyper-professional reserve she'd drawn cloak-like around her, a smile threatened to split her mouth, round her cheeks. His speculations had surprised her, baffled her, and then warmed her—the shape of his words and the marrow of his thoughts, they were quite…well, they were lovely. Who even talked like that anymore? Like a goddamn poet? All delicate metaphors and eloquent similes. That he sought to know her sight-unseen, that his thoughts so clearly gravitated toward her in his idle time, and that he mused over the potential traits and characteristics that comprised her—that set her apart uniquely as Kate Beckett—was both disquieting and endearing. To be known was to be vulnerable. And historically speaking, she was anything but vulnerable—personal defenses that put Megalithic walls to shame, aloofly skirting personal conversations, internalizing secrets and pain—but something was shifting.

First Lanie. Now Alex. Unguarded honesty and unfiltered conversations and voluntarily peeling back her brittle layers for inspection. It was unsettling, but with every admission she felt lighter, and that bore weighty significance. Even if she didn't have a clinical explanation for _why_.

"So. Alex," Sorenson murmured curiously from behind her, his voice punctuated by the scuff of their heels against the linoleum, "he a friend?"

"Alex is none of your concern," she hedged brusquely, suddenly on guard and more than a little irked at his prying, and tossed a look over her shoulder that communicated just that.

Will's hands lifted in synchronization with his brows, "My apologies. Just trying to make friendly conversation here."

"Yeah, well this isn't happy hour, Sorenson. And the details of my life aren't up for discussion." She aimed for cool and collected, but snapped her hard consonants like a whip and her tone had too much heat and warning in it to carry off nonchalance.

"Duly noted," he muttered wryly and she could hear the dry click of papers as he shuffled the bundles of files he toted. "I interrupted you because we got forensics back on the skeletal remains."

Halting their progress toward the messy conference room, she pivoted to face him expectantly. "Oh! Dr. Carnes works fast." Or so it seemed. Admittedly, she knew little to nothing of forensic anthropology, but the man had arrived on Sunday afternoon and a mere three days later he was ready to deliver a preliminary report.

"He's more than earned his reputation," Will agreed with a curt nod, and they continued into their stale, ad hoc base camp. After billeting themselves in the conference room all day every day for nearly two weeks, it had taken on the distinctive smell of corn chips, whiteboard markers, and industrial air freshener. Devoid of warmth and featuring only the most spartan of furnishings, the space reminded her of hospital rooms or vacated office spaces—sterile and uniform and awash in flickering fluorescents. Papers littered nearly every available surface, a surfeit of banker boxes lined the walls, food wrappers and long-cold cups of coffee spilled over the edges of a minute wastebasket, and their murder board was plastered with photos and hastily scrawled diagrams and salient information. Not to mention the precinct kept the place frostier than an icebox.

Yeah, she had come to loathe the room and everything it represented—endless, wordless hours sequestered with Sorenson, poring over grief-laden statements and disturbing crime scene photos. But she internalized her frustrations and channeled them into her early morning runs, feet pounding furiously against the treadmill, gasping for air and stability, ignoring the irony of trying to outrun her problems on a glorified conveyer belt. They didn't have the luxury for complaints though—too busy running leads and ruling out suspects to waste precious breath and thought on trivial matters like sleep and adequate nutrition.

"Have you read through them? Did he ID any of the remains?" She gestured loosely at the files clutched in his hand, and Sorenson hummed noncommittally in reply, his gaze flickering to the pages as he coolly rifled through them.

"COD is consistent for all five victims—manual strangulation—although we'd suspected that from the get go. Confirmed by Carnes due to hyoid fractures in three of the five remains and what appears to be perimortem laryngeal damage. Not much tissue to go on, but after conferring with Dr. Parish in regards to the laryngeal trauma, they were both in agreement. After running dental scans through NCIC," he paused, very briefly, and she watched his eyes shutter, his throat ripple as he swallowed back…something. Frustration. Emotion. Anger. And she felt her throat constrict in response, easily related to the weekly, daily, hourly struggle to keep it all contained, keep it all checked in the face of so much loss and grief.

"Carnes ID'd the four skeletal remains," he continued after a beat. "Respectively, our victims are Matthew Corr, Kyle Baker, AJ Sandoval, and Owen Tees. And James Deacon, of course. Hard to say exactly how long after abduction it was that they met their end, but based on the boys' age at the time of their disappearance and the growth that incurred while they were held captive, Carnes seems to think it's likely they were kept alive for roughly two months. Which means his cooling off period is pretty substantial. Something like four or five months?" With a subdued grimace, Sorenson deposited the file on a stack of papers and sank wearily into a chair, interlaced his fingers, bowed his dark head. "So our next move is to inform the parents."

 _God_ , she winced, diaphragm clenching. God. This _case_. Making it to the other side of this one even marginally emotionally intact was looking less and less plausible. Though she'd likelier sleep with Sorenson than admit the truth, it was getting to her. Carefully suppressed memories of Deacon's miniature form prostrate on the morgue table, the cloying scent of decay, nauseating photos of the mass grave, the raw, shuddering sobs of Deacon's parents. Their red-rimmed, haunted eyes.

Unsettling dreams tore her from sleep most nights, though their details firmly eluded her in the daylight; trembling limbs and sweat-slicked skin the only confirmation of the murky horrors from which she emerged. And then she lay wide-eyed in her still-damp sheets, sleep miles away, until her alarm announced her voluntary immersion into the waking nightmare this goddamn case had revealed itself to be. It followed her, too, the shadow. Inundating her every waking minute with this sense of disquietude that tangled and snagged in her chest, her stomach. And on top of the gnawing thoughts of her father, the vivid grief she felt over her mother—she was probably one street taco away from a stomach ulcer.

Echoing Will's posture, she sat at the chaotic conference table, irritably batting away the hair that fell from her bun and bit back a curse. _Calling the parents._ Inanely, she thought of Alex, of the gaping disparity between their casual, buoying conversation—had they really spoken only minutes ago?—and the four she had yet to make. One so life-affirming, the others announcing its premature conclusion. Shelving the knot of emotion that fought to surface, blinking back the sharp bite of tears and exhaustion, she slipped a hand into the pocket of her blazer, withdrew her cell, and met Sorenson's flat gaze. "You ready?"

"No," he rejoined tightly, eyes fluttering shut as he steadied himself. And then, shoulders squaring in resolve, he pulled himself upright and turned those assessing eyes on her. "Now I'm ready."

* * *

Ensconced in greasy bar stools, hands wrapped around twin tumblers of whiskey, Kate and Sorenson stared ahead mutely, discretely lost in grim thoughts of the preceding calls. It was one o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon, and the smoky dive was vacant apart from their two stoop-shouldered forms and a morose suit in the corner whose expression rivaled theirs for bleakness. Silence shrouded the space, broken only by the raspy strains of a staticky radio in the back room, and she was grateful for the quietude, for the unspoken concurrence they'd made to remain wordless. After all, nothing seemed appropriate in the wake of such all-consuming grief—their sleepless night punctuated by horrifically sobering conversations. Unbidden, the keening denials of the Baker boy's mother filtered through her mind, Mr. Corr's frantic inquiries of _are you sure?_ and wincing, she drained the last of her Maker's Mark in an effort to drown them out.

Surveying her empty glass, grey eyes sympathetic, Sorenson tilted his head enigmatically, and then summoned the youthful bartender with a piercing look. "Another for my friend, please," he requested, finally breaking their mutually imposed silence.

 _My friend_ , she blinked in bemusement. Well, that was unexpected. Will held up two, calloused fingers to indicate the expected serving size and after sweeping them both with speculative eyes, the punk-rocker-wannabe complied silently. The jewel tones of his tatted sleeves cheerfully glinting in the glaring wash of the track lighting as he tipped the bottle, emptying a generous portion into the chipped glassware.

"Thanks," she acknowledged, palming the tumbler gratefully and meeting Sorenson's eyes, a little thrown by the vulnerability she saw there, the fatigue and lingering sorrow.

"Don't mention it." He replied softly, almost warmly, and she dipped her head at his soft utterance, raised her glass expectantly to dispel the sudden intimacy of the moment.

"What are we drinking to?" Kate inquired, voice a little raspy from disuse, and she was pleased to see his mouth twist in a passable semblance of a smile. Because as much as his superior bearing pissed her off, he wasn't necessarily a bad guy. Initially, he'd been nothing short of an ass—arrogant, a bit condescending, dismissive—and even following his grudging apology, she'd held herself aloof when it came to personal interactions, still a bit gun shy, so to speak. But lately, he'd been…reasonably tolerable. Pleasant, even. Bringing her acrid coffees and soggy vending machine sandwiches, asking about her well-being and evening plans despite her consistently frigid demurs, stoically suffering through cold calls and financial records with her.

"To them," he stated, voice subdued, lifting his glass expectantly toward her. "The lost boys."

Startled, she torqued her upper body to face him. "Lost boys?"

"It's just…what I've been calling them in my head. Seems apropos."

She blinked at that, and at his haggard expression, surprised to see aspects of herself reflected. The sleepless nights, the haunting dreams, the sting of helplessness. Whether it was the liberating effects of the whiskey, or the mutually shared pain triggered by their calls, for the first time she saw Sorenson as more than a badge. Humanity leaking through the seams of his standard issue feeb suit. And it unnerved her. She didn't need the complication of _liking_ the asshole. Keeping him at arms-length, tolerating his existence for the sake of the case, harboring diligently repressed resentment toward him—the present state of affairs was working well for her. And now he had to go and be _real_ and open. Relatable.

"We're…we're gonna get him, you know?" She asked after a diffident pause, dropping her gaze to study the coppery bourbon. "This whole case has been one shitty turn after the other. Between the delays and practically nonexistent leads and scanty physical evidence, experience tells me our odds of nabbing this guy are slim to none. But it's like I can almost _taste_ our big break. Like it's on the tip of my tongue, mentally speaking, but we haven't put two and two together yet. It's coming out three right now, but we just haven't found the right corresponding pieces. When we do, it'll come out right. We'll finally make four."

"Yeah, well, if we're talking addition, _he's_ already made five," Will shot back, words laced with frustration, "and there's not a goddamn thing we can do to stop this pattern he seems so keen to continue. Everything's incumbent upon time restrictions and—and leads and we're running out of both. Might have done already."

"It's _there_ , Will. I can feel it. Whatever clue or piece of evidence we need to crack this thing, we have it. We're just…we're not seeing the interconnections," she huffed and roughly rubbed at her eyes.

"We're running out of time," he repeated dejectedly.

"Yes, thank you for that revelation, White Rabbit. Tell me something I don't know."

Knocking back the remnants of his whiskey, he fixed her with a measuring look that had her suppressing the urge to shift in her seat, discomfited beneath his scrutiny. "Well, I _don't_ know anyone's ever told you, but I've never seen someone handle victims' families so intuitively and so authentically. You're a… well, you're a hell of a detective, rare instincts, excellent people skills. So—so I believe you when you tell me we're missing something."

"Oh," she stammered out clumsily, an involuntary flush climbing down her neck. The grateful reply she knew he expected sat heavy in her mouth, but _thank you_ seemed stupid, trite. And he'd shocked the hell out of her with that ringing endorsement.

"And I mean, I see it too," he continued when no response seemed forthcoming. "This gaping, mocking hole in the evidence, I know that there's a piece to this we're _not_ seeing. But we will."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Glad we're on the same page," she stated simply, exchanging an enigmatic look with Sorenson, and then took another generous sip. This whole interaction was growing a little too saccharine for her tastes, too many warmly bestowed compliments and overly attentive grey eyes.

"So, what's a woman with your capabilities, with your intellect doing in law enforcement?"

And just like that, every trace of warmth, of fellowship fled.

"Excuse me?" She bristled harshly, and was gratified to see Sorenson's features tauten into a wary mask.

"Sorry," he told her, "I just…you're—women like you don't choose law enforcement, you know? Odds are it chose you. Even if enacting justice is your chief aim, women like you attend an ivy, go on to law school, have their name painted on a door, wear overpriced suits and marry hedge-fund managers. So, I just—what changed? Why this?"

 _Why this?_

A tempting scenario beckoned sweetly—christening him with the dregs of her bourbon, storming out of the bar in a tenable blur of cathartic rage and flashing eyes. And maybe he didn't mean to poke and prod, maybe his interest was genuine. _Maybe_. And maybe he was every bit the insensitive ass he appeared to be. But she honestly didn't give a shit about what motivated his inquiry.

"You've got some nerve," she drawled slowly, voice remote, back nearly bowing from her rigid posture. "I don't know what gave you the idea that digging into my past and posing offensive questions is in any way an advisable move on your part, but just…this, my life, my past—it's not up for discussion. Understand? Stick to the case, save the third degree for the perps, and leave me the hell alone."

After a charged beat, the silence turned oppressive, he stiffly bobbed his head in comprehension and they turned back to their cups. _One step forward, three lunges back,_ she simmered indignantly, doing what she could to tame the combustible, volatile words that inexplicably welled in her throat. Trying to force back the dark memories his questions had disinterred. And, then tossing back the rest of her drink, doing her damndest not to think at all.

* * *

Sorenson's ill-timed question followed her for the remainder of the day, nipping at her heels, fraying her nerves, and spiraling her into one of the foulest moods she could recall in recent memory. It had debrided the fragile callous the passage of time had grown over her wounds, tender scars inflicted one frigid winter night. And now that compartmentalization she so prided herself on was nothing more than wishful thinking.

Yeah, she was still working her mom's case. Quietly, deliberately, carefully. But this brought back all the destructive heat, all the raw emotion that she'd tucked away out of self-preservation when the case began cooling off. That she'd mastered and channeled into something productive—dispensing justice for others, methodically sifting through her mother's files, rising through the ranks like a helium balloon. And it was enough for her. Being productive. Or so she'd believed.

And of course, there was her dad. _Why this?_ Well, Sorenson, because no _choice_ had played a part in her decision to return to New York, or at the very least, desire had been speciously absent. Necessity? Absolutely. A misguided sense of responsibility? Her constant companion. Every unexpected phone call was a catch in her throat, a twinge of panic—Jim Beckett, father, attorney, alcoholic? New York City police department? County coroner's office? Something defeatist—or prophetic—in her had bleakly anticipated a second call. For the other shoe to drop. _"Miss Beckett, we regret to inform you that your father…"_

She stopped sleeping, stopped eating, and couldn't stop checking her phone, couldn't stop the nightmares. Couldn't stop the badgering sense of dread that accompanied every thought of her him alone, bottle in hand, cirrhosing himself into an early grave. And so she came home. Battling bone-deep weariness and bitter resentment toward her own father. Even now she fought it, the fear and the fury—this dichotomous yearning to reach out to him, to hear the familiar rasp of her name, to know he was well. But also to summarily, coolly, freely walk away. Like for like, eye for eye.

 _How does it feel to be abandoned?_

Her taunting thoughts played circuitously throughout the day, distracting her from the monotony of paperwork, drowning out the droning buzz of precinct conversation. Sorenson kept glancing over, regret and unspoken apologies in his eyes, but she wasn't in the mood to dispense forgiveness—not when his probing questions had been the dissolution of her meticulous control. So when five o'clock rolled around, she hastily gathered her meager collection of personal items and departed without a word. Ready for the solitude and relative safety of home.

Following their conversation the night before, Kate had determinedly relegated thoughts of Alex to some remote corner of her mind, channeling her collected energies into working the case. Into tolerating Sorenson's presence. But now, shuffling into her stuffy shoebox of an apartment, the day's mail clutched in one hand, he flooded her thoughts. And rather than suppress the overwhelming urge to call him up, rather than humor her reservations or hesitations, she easily, readily capitulated.

"Kate," his disembodied voice issued, and she fought a sigh at the warmth there, the happy lilt of his tone. It sifted through her, sluicing the tension from her shoulders, loosening her limbs and bending her lips into a hesitant, watery smile.

"Sorry, I didn't—I should have asked first. I mean, is this a good time?"

"For you? Always," he assured her, fervent for all he was succinct, and she tucked the promise away, resolved not to dwell overlong on its implications.

Stiltedly, she shambled to her misshapen couch, carelessly shucking her heels _en route_ before dropping to the thinning cushions. "I'm sorry our conversation was cut short today," she continued, loosing her hair from the tight confines of its bun.

"I have a sneaking suspicion that whatever called you away was a good deal more pressing than discussing the very intriguing particulars of your person," he murmured dryly, and she swallowed back a wave of unexpected sadness, reminded of how she'd spent her pre-dawn hours.

"Yeah," she managed, voice flat but unwavering—thank god for small favors. Despite striving for composure, however, she gave herself away. Or he was just that attuned to her—must have picked up on the emotion that bled through her seams, pressed through the walls of her neatly divided internal compartments.

"Don't answer this if you don't want, but…are you okay? You just—your voice kind of lilted up at the end of your response, and it—I don't know. Your voice sounds heavy. Weighty." God, he inferred all that from a single affirmation? "Is your—is everything okay? With work? With your—with your dad?"

"Today was…" _fine._ For just a moment, a prolonged beat, she considered lying, deftly equivocating and redirecting the conversation. But he sounded so sincere, and the warm rasp of his voice had lulled her into this hazy sense of complacency, and the truth just _spilled_ from her, unchecked. "Today was hell. I love my job, I love what I do, but there are aspects that—I mean, you never get used to them. And you shouldn't. Some things, people should never stop feeling. Some things should always have an impact. But today was especially…it was—it was painful."

After that soliloquy, she deserved some sort of an award. A statuette, a round of applause, _something_ —because she'd exercised raw vulnerability and unfiltered honesty, and now her pulse thudded so vigorously that it palpated the crisp cotton over the base of her sternum. _Aorta,_ she mused detachedly, and pressed her free hand against the fluttering cloth of her dress shirt.

"It hurts because it matters," he stated after a collective pause,the sentiment an affirming reflection of her own precepts. "I could say I'm sorry, and I am, but…whoever it was that you were—that you were assisting…you sharing in their pain made it easier to bear, I'm sure."

"Who said anything about me _sharing in their pain_?"

"Chalk the assumption up to my dazzling inferential abilities. You didn't say it, but the implication was there. I mean—I mean, am I wrong?"

"You're not wrong," she acceded grudgingly, and he hummed in response. Over the receiver, she could hear the indistinct susurration of his movements, the shifting of linens or cushions, and she wondered where he was, what he was doing. "So, you should—you should give me a little mental respite; some much-needed normalcy."

"You've come to the wrong place for normalcy," he quipped, and she felt the stirrings of a smile despite the tangle of anxiety in her chest.

"While customarily I would be in total agreement," she informed him pertly, continuing despite his injured huff, "but odd as _you_ are, your day was inarguably…ordinary compared to mine. I'm assuming. And I—I want to hear about it. Fill me in."

"Really? You wanna hear how I spent my day?" Judging from his bark of laughter, she'd surprised him.

"Yeah, is that such an odd request?"

"No, I just—just don't anticipate some scintillating tale, because I'm bound to disappoint you," he forewarned, tone self-deprecatingly dry. But his charge was empty. The man was a born raconteur—expressive, with a sweeping vocabulary and a mellow baritone that could make Ikea manuals compelling.

"Today was achingly slow. And maybe…no, that's _incontrovertibly_ a generous descriptor. It made the evolution of mankind look like one of those party favor flipbooks."

"Now you're just being melodramatic," she accused wryly and propped her feet on the lip of her rickety coffee table, settling in to the conversation expectantly. The way their dialogue wrapped itself around her was akin to hands encircling a coffee mug—comfortably familiar, warm, stabilizing. _A necessary component of your day?_

"So, I woke up early and had to shuffle my kid off to this day camp for brilliant future astronomers—and she's been on this interplanetary kick for the past couple of months, babbling on knowledgeably about dark matter and dwarf stars and how many parsecs per minute—"

"Oh, c'mon, Alex. Everyone knows a parsec is a unit of distance, not time. Don't tell me you didn't set her right, because a future astronomer needs to know…" she petered off, initial certitude subsiding when he didn't respond. "Alex?"

"You have a commendable knowledge of the Kessel Run," he rasped, naked awe in his tone.

"Unbelievable," she rolled her eyes at that, a genuine laugh escaping her, "parsecs are _real_ , I hope you realize. Not a Lucas construct."

"And inexplicably, you continue to grow hotter and hotter—at what is easily an exponential rate. It's actually a little unsettling."

"Just wait until I pull out my Tolkien references," she purred coyly, smirking at the telling clatter on the other line—dropped receiver, fumbled coffee mug, collision with a wall. It was refreshing, gratifying, charming even, his response to their verbal repartee.

"Mean woman. You're deliberately cruel," he accused, tone just shy of sullen.

"I am," she agreed, nodding her head needlessly, "which is why you should probably do your damndest to deliver on your promise for normalcy."

"Right," he drawled, and she pressed herself deeper into the sofa cushions, burrowing into the upholstery, "normalcy was promised. So, before the sun had even made an appearance, we were up and about, toasting Poptarts, cobbling together a superb brown bag lunch, haphazardly throwing on quasi-coordinating outfits, which, if you know anything of kids, went over about as well as a lead balloon. We made it there in time for registration, but barely, and after that, I hustled back home where I've been working. Nonstop. Punctuated only by a rather decadent grilled cheese and a couple bathroom breaks. And, of course, your superbly timed call. Did I mention how glad I am you called me?"

She curled her toes inward, let her eyes flutter shut, wanted to bask in the familiarity of his words and the contentment of his tone. "Never hurts to hear," she murmured, and they lapsed into a shared beat of amiable silence.

Alex sipped in a preparatory breath that had her opening her eyes, leaning forward. "Yeah?"

"Oh, it's nothing, I just—I mean, I just wanted to make sure that you're really okay. Not just placating me or tidily sweeping everything under a mental Aubusson. And I know we mutually decided that certain details are best left out of the mix at present—your precinct, the nature of your department, if you're also a closet Trekkie—but if you ever do need, or just really _want_ to discuss anything, you—you can always talk to me, you know?" He confirmed hesitantly, doing what he could to avoid proverbial toes and potential treading, she assumed. but willing to chance an unpredictable outcome. Because he was sincere and concerned and kind. And she couldn't fault him for that. Nor did she want to, really.

"I get that," she conceded stiltedly, a little subdued, a little hushed, "and…thanks. I just—some things, you—there just aren't words for some things. Even if I wanted to expound on the situation, which I don't, I wouldn't do it justice. Couldn't. My words would fall flat, would fall short, and I would be _more_ frustrated than before I tried and consequently failed to…liberate my thoughts."

"Your work is isolating," he murmured contemplatively, and she blinked back a surge of emotion, fatigue, unsolicited loneliness at his observation. Surprise that he'd made such an accurate determination with nothing but telephone lines between them.

"Sometimes." _Almost always,_ she internally corrected and shifted on the couch, discomfited by the direction of their conversation. "But that's—I mean, that's the nature of the job. I knew it when I signed on. It's a lot of long hours and fierce self-sufficiency and near-chronic fatigue and emotional trauma, but we do it for justice and for the victims. And that knowledge makes it worthwhile. Most days, at any rate."

"That's—you're pretty astonishing, you know?" He almost breathed it out after a lengthy pause, the compliment warming the crests of her cheeks, the ridges of her ears. Not _why this?_ she considered with a rush of gratitude, no indirect aspersions cast on her career choice, no probing inquiries. Just appreciation, affirmation.

"I think you're assigning too much significance to this, to the job. I'm one of roughly 30,000 individuals with the same uniform, with the same principle goal." Inanely, she realized she still clutched the bundle of envelopes and bill statements in her hand, the paper creased, softening beneath her damp palm. Peeling back her fingers, she watched dully as they fluttered to the battered floorboards.

"And I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit," he interjected kindly, "but let's just…leave that discussion for another time."

"Fair enough. Why don't you…tell me more about your work? Or your daughter and her interplanetary aspirations."

"You request normalcy and then ask about my genius daughter?" His laugh rasped through the earpiece, rinsed through her, and prompted a quick, bright smile from her in response. "She's—well, I think _precocious_ is the word that comes to mind. She's this owl-eyed, old soul, all knowing looks and empathy. But she's something of a paradox, because for all her maturity, she loves fantasy. Escaping the rigors of this world in the pages of a fictional land, losing herself in a movie or Broadway musical. She feels deeply, but she—she tries to hide it sometimes, I think. And it's not pride that keeps her from showing emotion, I think she doesn't want to _burden_ anyone, doesn't want to concern them."

"Meaning you," Kate elucidated, and he hummed his affirmation.

"Meaning me. And for all her sensitivity, you know, she's pretty damn brave. Trying new things, consistently excelling, demanding unnatural levels of perfection from herself. Which, if I'm being totally open here, concerns me. Because what happens if she fails? _When_ she fails?" She absently wondered if her own father had ever entertained introspection, had methodically thought through a character sketch of his daughter, had outlined her virtues and flaws. But it sent an ache singing through her, so she tucked the thought neatly away.

"When she fails—because she will, she's human—she has you and a whole host of other people that cherish her to soften the sting, to help her grow from it."

He paused for a beat, and when he spoke, his voice was measuring, wistful. "I'll bet you were a reckoning force at that age."

"Me?" A laugh snapped from her as hazy reminiscences flooded her mind—mental Polaroids, grainy and tattered and solitary. "I was—God, I was a hellion. Stubborn and willful, ran with the boys, more band-aids than skin most days. And I had this—this really horrific temper. Like, it was incendiary. One summer, I was in three separate fights in the space of a week, and to be honest I can't even remember why."

"No doubt they deserved it." He muttered, endearingly certain in his endorsement of her scrappy past.

"Debatable," she countered dryly, then let her head tip back against the cushion, peered up at the popcorn-ceiling, visually traced the contours of her smattering of water stains. "But it did establish me as a pretty solid neighborhood threat—boys gave me a wide berth and I was always a top pick in kickball and baseball. So it payed off in the end, I'd say. But I—well, I changed. Shifted and grew and matured. Parental expectations and private schooling are to blame for that, I suppose. And I still see shades of that ferocious kid in myself, flashes of her here and there, it's just…more purposeful? My anger, my obstinacy, my combativeness—they're all facets of what make me a better cop, but they don't rule me."

 _Don't they, Beckett?_ Unconsciously, her gaze flickered to the dingy, fastened shutters, the edges of her piecemeal collection of leads—memos, hastily scrawled notes, photographs—barely discernible through the slats.

"And what of you?" She prompted, eyes still trained on the window.

"My childhood?" He clarified, and she hummed her assent. "I was a reckoning force in my own way. A noisy latchkey kid desperate for attention, for acceptance, but too obnoxious to tolerate in most schoolyard cliques, I channeled _my_ frustrations into—well, into literature. Reading, writing, reimagining my life. And, like I—like I wrote in one of my letters, things changed in adolescence. The financial instability of my elementary years melted away, and I faced a new—yet familiar—set of challenges. Which is to say, kids are assholes regardless of age or socioeconomic status, and I wasn't tolerated in my high school years any better than from ages five to thirteen. So I get what you mean, when you say flashes of the kid you were live in the woman you are. I still see glimpses of—of the…fear of rejection, the tendency to withdraw, to live in my head."

Just as when she'd first read his rambling succession of letters, a pang went through her, the strangest dichotomy of compassion and admiration. "You turned out okay, seems like," she managed evenly.

"You haven't met me, yet." Alex's dark chuckle was a warning and an enticement that had her shifting restlessly.

"Then I'll reserve judgment for now, I suppose."

"Are you sure you don't—I mean, you _don't_ wanna know who I am?" He inquired, tone enigmatic.

"Jeez, _Alex,_ " she leaned heavily on his name, hearing the implication of _there's more you don't know_ in his unspoken words, but not ready to relinquish the ease of what they had at the moment. "I think I'll manage to survive without that crucial piece of information. For now."

"Fair enough," he yielded, heaving an overwrought sigh, "but when you do, just say the word. And maybe sit down first, or at the very least be standing over a carpeted surface during the big reveal."

"Okay, see, now I think you're just messing with me. There's no way your identity is that shocking. Honestly." She volleyed back and was rewarded with an indignant gasp.

"Well, detective, you'd be wrong. And I hope that you—" he broke off mid-sentence, exchanged words with someone else judging by the distant murmur of his voice over the line, and then he was back. "Hey, Kate, I've gotta let you go. Alexis just got back from astronomy camp—thank god for carpools—and apparently all she's had today is dehydrated space cheese and Tang, so I've gotta get dinner—"

"Go, take care of your kid, Alex," she dismissed easily, ignoring the unexpected stab of disappointment at his departure.

"I'll call you soon, Kate," he informed her, voice warm, and the line went dead.

Depositing her cell phone onto the cushion beside her, Kate expelled a gusty sigh and raked stiff fingers across her aching scalp, suddenly feeling a little adrift. She had some bean burritos in the freezer she could nuke for dinner, but despite the gnawing hunger pangs tightening her stomach, nothing sounded appealing. At the moment, her mind was too preoccupied to trifle with food, sifting through thoughts of Alex, of Sorenson, the case. Her father.

 _Her father._

They hadn't spoken since that day at the hospital, had allowed the accusations and angry words to sour and congeal into this awkward tension, which neither of them had ventured to break. Was he doing well? Or was he voluntarily diving down his very own rabbit hole on a nightly basis, courtesy of Goose and Daniels? Honestly, she wasn't sure she wanted an answer, but every time she thought of this rift between them, guilt and remorse sang through her. And she wanted a resolution.

Sucking in a steadying breath, she reached impulsively for a piece of junk mail—some low-interest credit card offer boasting cash back and rewards—and tore into it, flipping over the informational sheet to expose a blank expanse of paper. She wrapped her fingers around a stray pen sitting atop a half-finished crossword puzzle, and swallowing tightly, began to write.

 _Dad,_

 _I'm at a bit of a loss starting this letter, frankly. There are dozens of thoughts and emotions I'd like to share with you, but your track record is a little specious when it comes to taking action. And I'd rather sit on those sentiments than offer them up only to have them summarily tossed aside._

 _I'm pissed as hell with you for jeopardizing your health, your life, time and time again. And I'm also guilty as hell that I feel this way, that I'm withholding parts of myself, refusing a relationship. Being a shitty daughter. But for the sake of my sanity, I'm resolving to keep myself at a distance until I see evidence you've changed. Truly changed._

 _Don't think this detachment, this separation is in any way easy or desired on my part. But I think this is best for both of us—mutually imposed separation is vastly preferred to this constant cycle of disappointment. You're in a program, going to meetings, doing great, let's have dinner, Katie! And then the weepy, saccharine, slurry phone call signaling the all-too-expected relapse. Lather, rinse, repeat. I just think if we have any chance of repairing our relationship one day, I need the space to be angry, to heal, and to not have my wounds reopened—not be disappointed by your choices, yet again. So, I guess this is my way of letting you know I'm making myself scarce, but that once you've fixed yourself, I'll be waiting._

 _I hope you're doing well, and I love you._

 _Kate_

* * *

She was in the process of creasing and folding her letter into an envelope when her phone vibrated against her leg, startling her from a doleful stupor, and she roughly snapped it open, barking a perfunctory "Beckett" into the mouthpiece.

"I was gonna ask you if you wanted dinner, but from the sound of it, we should skip straight to the wine bar, girl." She relaxed at Lanie's whiskey-smooth drawl, huffed a bashful laugh.

"After this week, can you blame me?"

"Blame you? Hell, I'm trying to _entice_ you. And readily volunteering myself as a companion."

"I'm not opposed to the idea," she admitted ruefully, "and after all the granola bars and shitty coffee I've been taking in lately, I could use a hot meal. What did you have in mind?"

"Potjanee has this Phad Pak I've been craving, and I'm pretty sure you'd go nuts over their Pad Thai. Pretty good wine and _sake_ list, too. Whadya say?" Lanie wheedled needlessly, her sing-song cadence drawing a reluctant half-smile from Kate.

"Like it was even a question," came her sardonic murmur.

"Curb the enthusiasm, why don't you. Meet you there at eight?"

"Yeah," she affirmed quietly, "see you soon." Depositing her phone on the battered surface of her coffee table, she rose gingerly from the insulating warmth of the sofa, strode lethargically toward her room. Genuinely—albeit tentatively—happy despite the dark cloud hanging over her. Despite her father. Despite the Lost Boys.

* * *

"So, lemme get this straight. He asked you _why this_?" Lanie demanded lowly, expression murderous. "Those were his words?"

Swallowing her mouthful of wine, eyes smarting as the bold red slid down her throat, Kate dipped her head. "Yeah, and you know, he seemed absolutely bowled over by my response. Confused as to why I was so goddamn pissed.'

"And I thought the feds liked their agents _smart_ ," Lanie bit out pointedly, tilting her empty wineglass meaningfully in the direction of their waiter.

Smirking, she let her gaze lazily drift across the cramped space, fingers absently eviscerating the remains of her spring roll— dark grain wood tables and pendulum lighting warmed the interior, intricate tapestries and a sprawling mural blanketed the lengths of the walls, the atmosphere eccentric, a charming bricolage of furniture and textures and color. The aroma of fried rice paper wrapped around her, tempting her to place an order for those glass noodles she'd been eyeing despite the brick of Pad Thai currently churning in her stomach. All of those factors in addition to their delivery service, Potjanee has swiftly established itself as second or third _best overall_ in her mental catalogue of Soho eats.

"Aside from run-ins with asshole agents, what else you got going on?" Lanie inquired distractedly, brow knitted in concentration as she fumbled inarticulately with her chopsticks.

Kate gave herself a beat, collected her thoughts, and dove in. "Well, I called Alex."

Lanie blinked at her admission, eyes rounding, chopsticks clattering to the gummy tabletop. "Wait. You _called_ him?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" She bristled faintly, chafing under Lanie's obvious astonishment.

"Let me…let me rephrase that. Or, really, just adjust the accentuation," she amended, tone amused if not placating. " _You_ asked _him_?"

"Lanie," she muttered warningly, nominally stung by the turn their conversation had taken, by the faint insinuations regarding her flagrant commitment issues. It wasn't as though she didn't contend with enough self-recrimination. Wasn't as though she never regretted her near-impenetrable walls.

Somewhat subdued, Lanie canted toward her, eyes affectionate, tone unnervingly kind. "Sorry, girl. I'm just—I can't believe you called him! So, spill! What happened? How'd it go down?"

In spite of the lingering vestiges of annoyance, her lips sloped to the side, head tilted contemplatively, and she hummed cryptically. "It was…I guess it felt… _comfortable_ , is the most accurate descriptor. Like we were picking up the threads of conversation rather than starting from ground zero. And the way he talks is—it's captivating. Everything he says is eloquent and meaningful and—it's as though he's echoing my own thoughts, only far more lyrically than I could ever manage."

"So it was good?" The ME's face was inscrutable now, but the way she clasped her hands on the tabletop belied her anticipation.

"Yeah," she admitted, gaze flickering away from Lanie's knowing look, "it's always great."

"Wait, _always_?" At this point, the measure of her excitement was bordering on mortifying. Patrons glanced over at the ME's effusive gestures, her enthusiastic inquiries, and Beckett ducked her head, felt the rush of blood pool in her cheeks.

"Yes, always," she hissed witheringly, grabbing for her wine, quaffing an overgenerous portion.

"So there's been more than one call."

"Yep." There was always the off chance taciturnity would deter her.

"How many?"

Apparently not. "Three."

"And who called who?"

" _God_ , Lanie, this is a casual dinner, not Guantanamo Bay," she griped, suffering a pang of sincere regret over her ill-considered decision to introduce the _Alex_ issue.

"Of course not," she reasoned, smug smile tipping her full lips, "detention camps don't have spring rolls like this. But you didn't answer my question."

"I called, he called, I called," she allowed grudgingly, pinning the ME with a look of censure. "You're too damn pushy, you know?"

"You're welcome," she simpered, raising her glass in a mocking toast. "Now lose the glower, girl. I'll stop interrogating you if you'll answer two simple, noninvasive questions for me."

"Do I really have a choice?" She countered flatly, polishing off the remnants of her cab.

"What do you talk about?" Lanie ventured without pause, wholly disregarding Beckett's acerbic dig.

 _Oh,_ she blinked, a little nonplussed by the conventionality of her question. Well, that was reasonable enough, and far from intrusive. And Lanie was regarding her with this bemused expectancy now, a quizzical smile in place of her grating smirk, less arm-twisting, more warm invitation. Yeah, she could be open about this, though she internally reserved the right to redact their entendres and more intimate divulgences. Brow knitting, she pushed back against the chintzy vinyl seat, struggling to cohesively marshal her thoughts.

"I—we talk about everything. Which isn't a cop out, I swear. We swap jokes and stories, talk about work, family. The stupid, inane aspects of the day-to-day, you know? And the way he talks—his thoughts are so complex and lyrical, but it's _natural_. Not affected or lofty, just poetic. And relatable. And effortless. The conversation flows so easily, so steadily, and there's this openness between us that I…so yeah," she trailed off weakly, finally meeting Lanie's inscrutable gaze. "That answer your question?"

Lanie hummed her assent, then listed her head to one side and frowned. "As to my second question…just don't—don't be too pissed, okay?"

 _Jesus._ Inwardly steeling herself, she steeply arched a brow, Lanie's tacit signal to proceed.

"I guess," the ME led hesitantly, " _why this?_ I mean, why him, why now, why this way, when you're stunning and interesting and, hell, girl, you could have 'em lining up. And whatever rationale you provide—if you even have one—is fine. You'll get no judgment from this quarter, but…I've just gotta ask."

"We're—Lane, we're just friends," she stammered out, the assertion unconvincing even to herself. "There's not _that_ component to our—to whatever it is we have. To this really unconventional relationship—friendship. Whatever. But, I…he understands me. And it's been refreshing, you know? That we're mutually finding the value of this _thing_ in who the other actually is—their character, their mind, their personality." She faltered for a beat, sucking in an equalizing breath before forging ahead. "And, uh, you're right. I _could_ have— _have_ had them lining up. For my body, for an invitation to my bed. And sometimes—rarely, eventually—for something authentic. But it's never started out this way for me with a guy. Where there wasn't that physical element right from the get-go. So that's _why this._ Because for the first time in longer than I'd like to admit, I feel seen. And known. And completely understood."

Sentiments exhausted, she glanced up to find Lanie peering at her warmly, wearing a look of reassuring comprehension, her remarks graciously withheld. At least, for the moment. They passed a long moment in companionate silence before the ME signaled their waiter, requested he replenish their glasses, graced her with a fleeting smile over the Revlon-smudged rim of her glass, and issued her only response—voice a little triumphant, a little tender, utterly certain.

"Good."

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _Contrary to popular belief I'm still alive and kicking, and I swear I haven't abandoned this story. Rather, I moved about a thousand miles away from home and dove headlong into a wearying summer intensive for my grad school program. I'm so, so sorry for the radio silence on my end, and I want to say a special thank you to each and every lovely human that left a note of appreciation for this story or an encouragement to continue its progress. With 60+ pages of reading per night and thirteen page papers due every weekend, I've struggled to find time for sleep much less for inspired writing._

 _All that said, I'm not entirely satisfied with this installment. Far from satisfied, actually. I'm assuming it's rife with typos, and I know there's plenty that could be improved upon, but I've left you guys hanging for far too long. Here's hoping this will appease you lovely folk! Thank you for your patience and for sticking around! It means the world to me! More to come soon—promise._

 _-Feministly_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 10 : Days Like This**

 _ **Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.**_

* * *

Days like this reaffirmed the impetuous decision he'd made to purchase the loft. It had been leagues out of his price range, but coming off the tail end of a hugely successful, disgustingly lucrative book tour, he'd rationalized the alarming number of integers and blithely signed on the dotted line to his realtor's ecstasy and his accountant's abject horror. It had been the windows, really. Choice views and soaring ceilings were his real estate kryptonite. And the agent, like some goddamn bloodhound, had sniffed it out. She'd nonchalantly, strategically directed his attention to the industrial feel of the paned windows, the generous span and reach of them, how their height pleasantly dwarfed him, the exquisite view of the city, the yellow splashes of sun that spread across the burnished hardwood floors. Autumn's vibrant edges had barely surfaced when they walked the loft—a crisp October day, the sky a brittle, glaring blue; garnet and pumpkin and fulvous treetops swayed, crashed in the distance. And standing in a warming patch of light, eyes tracing a jagged row of buildings awash in the afternoon sun, the savvy realtor's glowing endorsements reverberating in his ears, he envisioned a nearly tangible future—Alexis decorating a Douglas fir positioned before the window, snow lazily drifting to the street below, strands of colored lights and the pale moon their only illumination; lazy springtime naps sprawled on the couch, buttery sunlight washing cozily over them; dusting off their Celestron and stargazing on sweltering summer nights, opting for the comfort of air conditioning, velvety milkshakes, and remote views of the Northern Cross and Cygnus. And so he'd shelled out a sickening down payment, and following that one nauseating moment, never experienced a moment's doubt. This was his place. It was where he belonged. Where Alexis belonged. Where they would carve out a future, foster memories as bright, as golden as the sunlight that soaked through the dense weave of his flannel. And that sense of profound rightness was nestled anew—though to a milder degree—in his chest this morning as he labored over his newest acquisition, cursing and fumbling with knobs, squinting against the reflection of bright sunlight on chrome.

He shouldn't have purchased this either—because it was outrageously costly, of course—but looking at the thing, he found himself incapable of summoning up an ounce of remorse. So yeah, he shouldn't have made the purchase because it was idiotically extravagant. That was a given. But also because he'd written a check for Alexis' tuition the day before, and the thought of all those trailing zeros still knotted his mouth in a grimace of semi-pain. He placed the blame on not only the salesgirl—calm, hyper-logical, warm, and readily producing a litany of rationales for why this purchase was a _necessity,_ not a luxury—but his own weakness for scalding cortados and shiny objects. Maybe his threshold for moderation and restraint was low, or his need for caffeine intake was simply unusually high, but something was unequivocally wrong with him because he hadn't even blinked when he'd pulled out his American Express black card. Swipe, smile, sign, so long—no second thoughts or hesitations. Now he was the proud owner of a La Marzocco Linea Group 2 semi-automatic espresso machine, guided only by his alarming lack of proficiency and a manual written mostly in Italian, and he was in a shitty mood because he'd delayed his first cup of coffee in deference to the frothy latte this heap of crap portended. Well, he groused, regarded the machine with animosity, that ship had sailed. Despite his best efforts, not even a trace of steam issued from the frother. And he had the faintest suspicion that they'd modeled the portafilter after those Chinese puzzle boxes, because for all his exertions, he had yet to correctly fit it to the group head. Head pulsing from the caffeine deficit, Rick shoved back from the countertop, pocketed his wallet, shrugged into an ancient NYU sweatshirt, the thought of a bone dry cappuccino from Fiat luring him outside.

Roughly, he jerked the door open, irritation thinning his mouth to a tight line, narrowing his eyes, but it all shifted in the space of a taut little moment—frustration giving way to dread-induced cold sweats, to a shock of dismay, to suffocating claustrophobia as he was enveloped in a proprietary embrace, half-smothered in a cloud of strawberry hair and _Cle de Peau Beaute._

"Surprise, kitten," a warm mouth moved against his ear, kindling a deep, familiar irritation. She was like one of those undetectable, phantom itches, slowly driving him to the brink of insanity in his ineffectual attempts to _rid_ himself of her presence. Yet here she was.

Extricating himself from her grasp, pressing her away, he struggled to scrape together a sentence. She looked so goddamn pleased, blithely imposing herself on him, on Alexis, indifferent to the potential inconvenience of it all—but then, she'd always been impulsive. Not that he considered himself any expert on the virtues of self-control or delayed gratification—his gaze bounced to the La Marzocco ruefully—but she took impulsivity to an entirely different plane. Dimension, maybe. _Always had_ , the thought settled bitterly in his mind and he curbed a sharp wince as old memories superimposed themselves, blotting out reality for a technicolor beat—Meredith a few years younger but her hair the same flawless metallic cascade, a red curtain between his dumbstruck gaze and the muscle-bound body pumping against his wife. Which was all he could do. Watch. Try to remember how to breathe. To think past the scarlet haze of fury and the choking pulse in his throat. To not drive his fist into the other man's face, ruin the lines of his aquiline nose, bloody the mouth laving at her neck. Because what _did_ you do—waltzing in on a stranger fucking your wife? There wasn't a rulebook, wasn't a gold standard for that.

"Meredith," he greeted, his voice a flat, cool thing. A wall. "What are you doing here?'

"Ever the consummate host," she rejoined airily, pushed past him, skimmed manicured fingers down his arm as she went, and he fought the urge to bat them away. "Why? Don't tell me you're not happy to see me."

"You know you're always welcome here. You're Alexis' mother," _more like a distant aunt_ , his mind supplied bitterly, "and you should be in her life as often as possible. I _want_ you in her life, I just—a little advance notice would've been nice."

"This wasn't exactly planned," she shot back with a too-bright smile, tone dismissive, but her eyes defensive, skirting his gaze. That was the crux of the problem, though, the foundation of his rancor—there was _never_ any plan, and Alexis paid the price. Every goddamn time.

"So I'd gathered," he muttered acerbically, shoved the door closed with the heel of his hand, the wood meeting the jamb harder than he'd anticipated. His cappuccino was a fast receding thought, and the caffeine deficit amplified his irritation, the anxious tangle in his gut stratified with the ghost of a stress headache. The twinging promise of one. Wincing anticipatorily, he pressed a damp palm to the base of his skull. "Alexis isn't even here. She's actually at a friend's, at the tail end of a birthday party—a sleepover. Macy's mom will drop her off, but I'm not sure when exactly."

The reference to Macy was an innocuous dig, an emotional elbow to the side—Meredith didn't know Macy existed, much less that she and Alexis were in dance together, that they spent an afternoon each week working their way through cavernous bowls of strawberry ice cream, constructing card houses and crafting beaded bracelets. And he wanted her to know just how much she didn't know, the sweeping scope of what she'd relinquished. It helped somehow—inflicting a little pain—loosened, unspooled the knot, enabled him to breathe a shade deeper. But the resentment still simmered beneath his deliberately courteous veneer, kept company with the pulsing ache in his head, ratcheted up his tension.

Meredith shifted her weight restlessly from one spindly leg to the other, the reticulated lines of her trachea emerged on a tight swallow, and she smoothed down nonexistent flyaways—she was nervous, he realized, blinked at the knowledge. That was...unexpected.

"Well, when will she be back?"

"Soon," he said without elaboration, hating that she looked so alluring. Hating himself for noticing.

The silence went stagnant then, hanging heavy, punctuated by their discomfited shifting and the muffled din of traffic below, and after a beat Meredith hesitatingly alighted on his sofa. "Alright," she sighed, toying with a fob on her extortionate handbag and staring pointedly away from him. "I'll just…well, I'll wait here, if—if that's okay with you, I mean."

Of course it wasn't okay, he wanted her gone. Her presence rankled, and the words he wanted to liberate lay on his tongue, a bitter taste. But he shelved his personal irritation, resolved to lick his reopened wounds at a later moment, and stalked back to the espresso machine, the harsh glint of light on chrome triggering a stinging fuzz of tears. "Sure. How long're you planning to be in town?" He tossed over his shoulder, blinking fiercely, his wet lashes brushing against the apples of his cheeks.

"I'll fly back out in a week or so," she draped one flawless porcelain leg over the other, sinking deeper into the plush cushions. "And before I do I want to spend plenty of time with my sweet girl."

She was shooting for warm, for attentive, if the tilt of her head and the width of her smile were anything to go by, but it came off saccharine and false and two dimensional—as though she could finesse and playact her way through this exchange the same as she did in those idiotic Mexican soaps she loved so much. As though her overblown performance wasn't heartbreakingly transparent.

"So, 'plenty of time'—what does that mean?" He was jamming the portafilter into the grooves of the grouphead, his motions rough, the only available release for his rising pique.

"What do you mean 'what does that mean'?"

"I mean," he clipped out, a little rush of satisfaction, of relief coursing through him as the basket finally, _finally_ notched into place, as the fraying threads of his self-restraint gave way one by one, word by word, "you buying her a new toy and a fucking cone of ice cream doesn't cut it. You can't fix what you did, you know. You _left._ "

"You told me to leave, you _asshole_ ," her voice was sharp, acidic behind him, full of misplaced vindication, and it whetted his temper. Justified the steady flame of anger that was making his head pound, his hands waver. "So I left."

" _Me_ ," he barked a laugh, this humorless, vicious rasp that tightened his throat, and he stared sightlessly out the windows, past the line of buildings, past the thin veil of cirrus clouds. "You were supposed to leave _me_. Leave our _marriage_. Leave the _loft_. But not Alexis. I mean, what kind of person leaves their own kid? Doesn't worry, doesn't call, doesn't give a _goddamn_ what's happening with them?"

He wheeled on her, some raw, base part of him deeply gratified by the shock etched on her face, the hurt. It aged her, he acknowledged spitefully, the expression of stupefaction pulled at her lips, accentuating the lines that bracketed her mouth, that fanned from the corners of her eyes.

"You don't even _know_ her," he continued, words tumbling free before he'd fully formed a thought, emotion spewing from him unchecked. "You don't know that she just finished _Peter Pan_ and is consistently reading at a collegiate level, that she's brilliant and intuitive and outstripping her peers in all of her placement tests. You don't know that she hates zucchini but loves green beans, that she cried when she learned about the Midwest tornadoes this May and sent all of the money she had saved to FEMA. That she still needs Munky Bunky to get to sleep but denies it because she thinks she's too old to need a stuffed animal to feel safe. That she learned how to braid her own hair this year because she doesn't have a mother to do it and she told me it was time for her to grow up. That she knew I was busy and she could do it herself.

"You don't know that she wants to be a doctor, that her favorite movie right now is _Finding Nemo_ and that, to date, we've seen it four times. You don't know that every time she gets a cold she gets an ear infection, too, and that the only remedy is these awful, pungent garlic ear drops I get from this new-age homeopathic shop in the upper east side. You don't know because you decided that your own career outstripped your own daughter in importance—you treat her like an elective. Like a distraction. If it's convenient then you're a mother. If she somehow interferes with your plans, or god forbid with your fucking career, then you make your excuses and leave her wondering what the hell is wrong with _her._ "

For the space of a few elastic moments, she was quiet, the crackling silence charged and tenuous. "Are you telling me I can't see my daughter, Rick," she finally demanded, voice quavery but harsh, pointed, her shock giving way to indignation, her features crumpled in distress. And just like that his fury abated, left him brittle and a little shuddery.

"I'm asking you to treat her like your daughter," he managed tightly, "and not an amusement. Not an option. You're hurting her, Mer." She flinched at that, gripping the patent leather of her bag until it crepitated, her knuckles blanching white. _Good._

"I—I'm sorry," she stammered, and she sounded genuine, looked utterly penitent. But she'd been sorry before and he knew her—she'd be sorry the next time, and the next, and the consequent dozen times she inevitably couldn't make it or something unexpected cropped up or there was a career altering role she simply couldn't decline. It was who she was—flighty and self-centered, but for all that, she wasn't bad. Which somehow made it infinitely more tragic, her neglect. But instead of giving voice to his thoughts, he buried them somewhere deep and aching, studied the cornflower blue of her eyes, the way they turned down at the edges in sadness, the thick rim of her immaculate mascara. And he sighed soft and slow.

"I know."

Macy's mother had commendable timing, he mused, relief filtering through him at the _tap-tap-tap_ that issued from the front door. He reached it in a few swift steps, swinging it open to reveal Alexis' rueful face, little body stooped beneath the weight of her overnight bag, still clad in her pajama bottoms and a nearly-too-small t-shirt grown paper thin from wear. "I forgot my key again," she admitted, voice raspy, and flashed him a smile by way of apology.

Holding the door wider, he stepped back, let her duck under the arm he had braced against the lintel, and turned to face Meredith, worked to rearrange his features into something kinder. This battle, it concerned him and the winsome creature perched expectantly on his sofa. Anything he could spare Alexis, he would—refraining from badmouthing her mother, shielding her from their altercations, cushioning Meredith's recurring absences with trumped up pretenses. She saw, inferred, felt too much as it was—too perceptive, too sensitive for her own good—internalizing everything. It hitched something tighter in him, stomach twisting painfully at the knowledge that she'd been forced to grow up prematurely.

"Mommy," she said, voice tipping up in disbelief, slippered feet stuttering to a stop. Quick, uneasily, she darted her eyes at him—a little wary, a little jaded—and he stretched his mouth in a sorry semblance of encouragement, smile not traveling beyond his lips. "What are you doing here?" She inquired hesitantly.

Meredith huffed a little laugh, reproval in her tone. "What a question, sweetheart! I missed you! It's been too long since we've had some quality girl time, don't you think?"

"Um, yeah, I guess so," Alexis shifted, skepticism still wreathing her words, swimming in her tired eyes.

"Well, then that settles it!" Meredith beamed, bringing her spindly hands together to punctuate the declaration. "And you're going to be so _excited_ about the plans that I made for us—a spa day at Shizuka, reservations at this darling little French restaurant for dinner, and of course Barney's for a shopping spree and whatever else strikes your fancy!"

Yes, because all little girls lived for seaweed wraps and _Langue de Bouef_ , he thought acerbically and, with greater forbearance and composure than he felt, gently pressed the door to.

* * *

And now—now they were gone for the day, Alexis' parting expression a plaintive contrast of elation and dubiety— _I love you, but you hurt me, mom_ —Meredith a maelstrom of boisterous words and effusive gestures and affable impatience, and suddenly he was alone with a defective espresso machine and his seething thoughts, turning her words, his words about in his mind, trying to harness his brooding sentiments into something manageable. Something bearable. _Unsuccessfully_ , he groused, tunneling clumsy fingers through his hair, relishing the distracting twinges as the strands caught, snagged, pulled. For the space of a moment he considered calling his mother up, unleashing a scathing diatribe, allowing her sing-song placations, her tender endearments to soothe his jagged irritation. But he didn't want her calm logic, her motherly perspective. Didn't want to be mollified. He wanted…Kate.

Throat working on a swallow, he collected his phone from the countertop and fell into step, pacing a measured tempo that distracted him from the telling hammer of his pulse. Yeah, he was inordinately invested, he knew, cared too much for a disembodied voice, an illusion, a woman he'd never met. And he only gripped the phone tighter.

A snick sounded on the other line, fumbling ensued, a gasping breath that ratcheted his own respiration. "Beckett," she panted airily, that terse professionalism he so admired noticeably absent, succeeded by something more human but just as alluring. She sounded winded, hoarse and breathless, for reasons—exertions—he wasn't entirely certain he'd be comfortable knowing.

"Hey, it's me," he greeted warmly if not apprehensively, familiar in his genericity, and was pleased, overly gratified when she breathed out an elated "hey" in response. "I hope I'm not interrupting you or taking you away from anything or—or if this is a bad time, I can always, you know—" he was equivocating, bumbling through his words, and he kind of hated himself for it.

"No, not at all," she assuaged, "I was just wrapping up at the gym."

 _Thank every god and demi-god I know,_ he thought with feeling, relief unspooling the tension is his shoulders, his jaw, and he raised a celebratory fist, tried to keep the cheek-splitting grin from bleeding into his response, "Well, then I'm glad I caught you. I just—I haven't heard anything from you in a while and I was wondering how things were going, how you've been, if you've gotten anywhere with the case."

"Huh, I'm not—I'm not used to that," her voice sounded puzzled, a little faltering.

"Used to what?"

"Well, re—reporting, I guess. Checking in."

He halted his pace, fear that he'd overstepped his bounds, had warded her away with his prying immobilizing him. "Yeah? Should I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be nosy—"

"Don't be. I didn't say it was bad, just that it's—it's not familiar. That's all. But to answer your question, I'm doing okay."

"Why does that sound like a rote response?"

"Likely because we're communicating via phone and you can't see my brilliantly reassuring smile." Thrust meet parry. He thrilled to the repartee, the flirtatious banter that characterized their exchanges, bit back another grin.

"Don't side-step me, detective. How are you _really_?"

"Please," she purred, "dispense with the amateur interrogation, will you? You don't have a clue as to what you're doing."

"And you do?" He shot back, pivoting on his heel, striding through the squares of slanted sunlight cast through the mullioned windowpanes.

"I don't wanna brag, but yeah, I know my way around the box," her voice was self-assured, smug, downright arrogant. He loved it.

"The box, huh? Police parlance. That's hot." You _are hot,_ he amended internally.

"You use that descriptor pretty frequently; I hope you realize."

"Well, it's a fitting adjective. In regards to—yourself."

It was a gamble, but a well-placed one if her low roll of laughter was anything to go by. "That's a bold assumption seeing as you've never laid eyes on me."

"But you didn't correct me," he reasoned, coming to a shuffling halt, bracing his elbows on the chilled marble of the island. "I'm right, aren't I? I have a sense about these things."

"No comment. Pleading the fifth."

"Like I said. Hot. But really—how are you? And _fine_ is a non-answer, _fine_ is a meaningless, four-letter word. Tell me something real." His words were more forceful than he'd intended, and he flinched, mind rushing to craft an apology, tell her to disregard the request, but she surprised him. She always did.

"Well, if I'm not sugarcoating things, I'm…" a sibilant rush of air roared through the earpiece—a weighty, weary sigh, he realized, and the impulse to reach out and soothe her curled his fingers, carved furrows between his eyes. "I'm tired. So, so tired."

"Your dad, again?" He prompted warily.

"No, it's not him. It's this—this case that I'm working," her voice was suddenly drained, flat, and he could almost _hear_ it, could mentally trace the stoop of her shoulders, the purpled crescent moons beneath her eyes, the unwashed hair in a sloppy bun and the wilting drape of stale clothing. It was all painfully, utterly palpable, concern gripping his chest in a clammy fist. _Too goddamn invested, Rick._

"This case is just…it's sucking the life right outta me, I swear. There aren't any leads. I mean, I can usually find _something_ , something seemingly meaningless—a _thread_ —and follow it, pull and tug until something unravels, but there's nothing here. No loose ends, just the same—the same excruciating photos and the same nauseating coroners' reports, and I've been over everything so many times that it's all but _burned_ into my brain. I can't unsee it, can't—even my dreams won't let me forget, it's all played back to me in _brilliant_ , technicolor details. All—all the suffering." She finished calmly, softly.

"For someone as competent at you, that's gotta be pure hell," he ventured after the silence had settled, wishing they weren't so remote, that his comfort wasn't quite so paltry.

"I've had better weeks," she conceded, still subdued, removed.

Shoving away from the countertop, padding across the room to stand in a golden rhombus of light, he peered out the windowpane and scrutinized the street below, the taxis crawling along like glossy yellow beetles, the surface of the sidewalk teeming with bodies—all of them headed from somewhere to someone or something, all discrete, untapped stories. He hummed, let the tone melt into a quiet laugh. "You and me both."

"Well, fill me in, Renoir," she bid, her voice warmer now, seeping through his veins, more tangible than the sunlight through his cotton tee. "Don't let me suffer alone."

 _Never. Never that, Kate._

"Don't get your hopes up," he warned, a genuine laugh spilling from him now. "It's not comparable to your week by anyone's standards, it was just—it was just today, really. A fantastically shitty morning. And it's colored my perception of the surrounding days, I think. My…well, my ex showed up before my first cup of coffee, no advance notice, no apologies. Just asked me where my daughter was, which inevitably led to a heated disagreement, which was followed by her awkwardly, silently perching on my couch for the better part of an hour. Like a bird. Watching me with her beady eyes while I shuffled around uneasily in my kitchen. And now my kid is spending her day experiencing all of my ex's favorite activities—what eight-year-old wants French food, really?—and hanging out in swanky department stores, and I'd lay steep bets that she doesn't stay in the city more than a few days.

"She does this, over and over—sweeps in, all glamorous and captivating and fun, and she reawakens this…this _longing_ in my kid. For a mom. Not the cool aunt who jets in on the weekends. She breezes into her life and breezes back out with all of the finesse of a category five hurricane, and I'm trying not to—" he trailed off, realizing with a little start that he'd grown impassioned, his words harsh, cutting things.

"Not to…" Kate prompted, curiosity present in her voice, but no censure. No judgment.

"Not to hate her for it." The words were too easy to say—cruel, bitter words—but the guilt didn't come, didn't issue from that overcritical internal voice or from the faceless woman on the other end of the line.

For just a beat, it was still—a quiet moment to recollect thoughts, marshal his calm. "She's hurting your kid," she murmured finally, "and you're a good dad. It would be surprising if you didn't hate her a little."

"Are you absolving me?" He asked bemusedly, shifting his weight to the other leg, sweat collecting in the dip between his clavicles.

"I don't think you need to be absolved. You're—well, you're doing your job—you're supposed to be there to protect her." She'd gone wistful, the subject of fathers disinterring some of that carefully tamped down grief, he surmised.

"Fat lot of good it's doing," he scoffed, bringing the heel of his free hand up to his forehead, pressed hard against the unyielding bone. "She's gonna come home with a new dress from Barney's, a doggie bag full of _escargot_ , and fledgling hope that's destined to be crushed."

"And you'll be there to pick up the pieces. She'll heal, she'll learn, and—and having you will make it...bearable." The way she delivered those words—steady, assuredly, plainly—struck him dumb, elicited a series of rapid blinks, lodged a burl in his throat.

"I—ah, thank you," he countered simply, speaking around the thickness. And he tacitly earmarked the discussion, the subject matter too weighty for their tenuous relationship, steering the conversation into safer territory. "So, I—I know that you're limited as to what you can divulge about your work—I won't scrape for details, swear—but tell me about the other parts of your life. Kate in the real world, and not the kick-ass hyper-professional detective—much as I appreciate that _vastly_ intriguing side of you."

Oh, there was that throaty laugh, the one that curled through him, suffused him with warmth. "Much as I'd like to awe you, my 'real world' self as you so eloquently put it is pretty tame in comparison."

"Now why don't I believe that?"

"Because you're a sensationalist man-child, I assume," she quipped, deadpan, and he huffed in amusement.

"I won't even attempt to deny it, but really, Kate. Just…something. About you. Anything," he coaxed, endeavoring to keep the edge of curiosity from coloring his tone.

A beleaguered sigh, rustling on the other line. "Fine. Although to be fair, you already know more—you know quite a bit."

"Humor me." He wasn't begging, but it was perilously close. _Be cool, Rick._ But he'd never been cool.

"Eager, aren't you?" She teased, but there was no bite to it, no teeth, and he relaxed into a sheepish smile. "Well, let's see. I love Russian literature—Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Pushkin, Gogol—"

"Russian? Gogol? C'mon, detective. Discriminating scholars agree he should be classified as a Ukranian author."

"Don't even, Alex. I aced my Slavic Languages and Literature course—Gogol is Russian. And frankly, I find his work a bit too saccharine, so let's move along. _Russian literature_ —" she stressed, and he swore he could hear the quelling look she would've thrown him, "—and running. I like to run. It clears my head, leaves me with rubbery limbs and my lungs on fire—drains me in the best way, you know? I have four routes that I take, each one to suit a different mood, and I just…lose myself in the rhythm, the smack of my sneakers. And…um, let's see. Other things that I love. The color purple—the actual color, mind you, not the novel, though I do love Alice Walker. Also, Thai food, the way hot pavement smells after it rains, a pair of great heels, Wheezer, and anything cherry scented. And—and that's all you're prying out of me today."

 _You're perfect, meet me for coffee, talk to me for hours,_ he thought, mouth dry, aching for something indeterminate, wanting _more_. "I'm willing to wait for it," he said instead, belying his impatience.

She gave a mellow hum in reply. "Mm, well, much as I appreciate that, I'm not. Quid pro quo, Alex. Spill it."

"Well. Frankly, I'm impressed, detective. Those renowned interrogative skills? Really living up to the hype."

"Sure, mock me, but you wouldn't last the hour. Civilian." She was all false warmth and affability and he perversely liked her this way—feathers ruffled, goaded, subliminally combative. Liked that they were at a place relationally where barbed witticisms were allowable—expected, even—and wordplay was interlaced throughout their conversations.

"Fine," he breathed, all mock indignation, "but I feel like you already know the sordid stuff."

"Somehow I doubt that," she intoned darkly, disbelief and the slimmest edge of amusement coloring her words.

"Okay, okay. I—I like bourbon. From the outrageously expensive stuff to absolute bottom shelf. It's warm and…inviting, maybe. Meant to be cradled in a broad palm and nursed throughout meaningful conversation before a crackling fire, you know? I've done a lot of traveling—a _lot_ of traveling—but New York has this magnetic draw. I—I can't imagine myself anywhere but here. I'm not as discriminating in my literary tastes as you, with your Karenina and Karamazov, but I…like books with sad endings. It makes them more real somehow. Because life is a little like that, I think. I love the way my daughter's hair smells straight out of her bubble bath, curled on my lap, wrapping us in a cloud of strawberries. The way the sunlight slants through my windows in the autumn, fresh stacks of pancakes, and people watching at corner cafes. Oh, and coffee in all its forms," he added parenthetically, and Kate hummed, her smooth contralto washing over him.

"I second that."

"Oh, we have another addict on our hands!"

"And happy to remain so," her voice lifted, buoyant with a smile.

"No judgment from this quarter," Rick returned, his own mouth spreading, stretching to form a grin. Again. It was constant with her—this effervescent happiness that sort of welled up and spilled out at his seams.

"All of that information and I still don't know your name," she murmured pensively, and he started, his heart knocking in his chest, his breath snaring in his throat.

"Is that—are you asking?"

Suddenly, he wasn't prepared. Wasn't ready to disclose his identity, wasn't ready for their budding relationship to shift, wasn't ready for this to end. Because after she knew who he was and comprehended the lie he'd perpetrated, he questioned whether she'd ever willingly read a word of his novels again, much less accept his calls, field his letters. He was too much a fatalist—despite his high-flown ideas of romance and idealism—to believe she could overlook it. If he was honest with himself, didn't dilute the fear, didn't gloss over the possible outcomes.

It was a long pause, the silence a dull sizzle in the earpiece, and he was mustering up words and courage when she finally spoke. "Not yet," she decided, and he blinked once, slowly, the relief a sweet taste in his mouth.

"You're—uh, you're sure?"

"When I want to know I'll ask. Eventually," Kate reassured him, and he studiously ignored the dread that pooled in his stomach, heavy and viscous at the thought of _eventually_.

"Eventually, then," he managed, voice lighter than he felt, and let the pitching treetops pull his gaze through the windows and skyward.

* * *

Midnight had long since arrived and departed, his eyelids felt sticky, his tear ducts gritty, and still his fingers tapped out a fierce, staccato tempo—it was all so _vital_ tonight, Derek forcing his way through the keys and onto the page, inspiration fueled by anger and fatigue and the bitter edge of helplessness. Abruptly, he paused mid-sentence, wrapped a hand around his sweating tumbler, let the amber Hibiki burn a path of clarity to his gut, grimaced in pleasure, and then resumed his pace. Because if he focused on Derek, reality was a smudged side thought, which rendered Meredith nonexistent, which kept him sane.

After talking to Kate, he'd redoubled his efforts in deciphering the Hammurabi's Code of espresso machines, and several expletive wreathed hours later, he was cradling an arid demitasse of steaming cappuccino, sprawled on the couch languorously, contentedly, sparingly drawing on the hard-won beverage. It hadn't yet gone lukewarm when Meredith waltzed back in, a befuddled Alexis and cluster of glossy shopping bags trailing behind her, chattering on mindlessly about her agent and a seemingly _once in a lifetime opportunity_ and the sheer serendipity of being in New York for _this weekend precisely._ With every animated syllable and every despondent glance Alexis directed toward the floor, his anger cured, hardened, solidified until he was _seething_ with brutal, paternalistic outrage. And despite his pointed glower, the white hot fury coming off of him in near tangible waves, she continued to prattle on as though they hadn't already fucking discussed the implications of her negligence, of her inability to abide by her promises. And before he could form a coherent sentence, before he had the chance to really gather his thoughts, Meredith did what Meredith did best—beamed beautifully, collected her handbag, and left. A taciturn daughter in her wake.

Rick had approached her slowly, knelt down, rested broad, calloused hands on shoulders slim and fragile as fish bones, peered into the pinched little face. "Hey, you okay, pumpkin?"

When she swallowed, he could see the delicate ridges of her trachea, the pulse at her temple, the wetness collecting in the corners of her eyes. "Mm-hm," she bobbed her head in dubious affirmation, rubbing her palms against the fabric of her jean shorts, looking lost, bruised. Suddenly, he realized her eyelids were blue, shimmering with _Chanel_ or _Lancôme_ or _Guerlain_ —blush on the apples of her cheeks, lacquer on her lips. Too goddamn young to be wearing makeup—the living doll bit an artless bid to please Meredith, he knew—too young to shoulder this recurrent disappointment, to have a mother who simply _wasn't_. Who wasn't there, wasn't cut out to parent, who was always, always leaving.

And he bit back the platitudes and hollow words of comfort and instead elected to simply hold her to him as she stoically, adamantly _didn't_ cry, as she panted shuddery breaths against his shoulder, as his cappuccino congealed half-finished still clutched in his white-knuckled fingers. He bandaged her wounds that night with banana pancakes, with aerosolizing whipped cream directly into her mouth, with swaddling her in layers upon layers of blankets worn satiny soft by repeated washings. With reading in companionate silence until her aquamarine eyelids lowered, mascaraed lashes coming to rest on the crests of her freckled cheeks. With carrying her to bed gently, carefully. With doing all that he could to blot out the sense of abandonment that had leeched the color from her face and sapped the light from her eyes.

And still, it wasn't enough. So he wrote. Channeled the spillage of emotion into raw and searing words—the bright blue of molten steel, heat and warning and fire. Derek laying into his captain, blistering phrases and crimson obscenities littering the page, destined for redaction. But it was out there—the fury, the spite—cathartically spent on words, purged via jagged, jolting sentences. Which helped, albeit minimally. The anesthetizing effects of the bourbon had blunted the spinier edges of his anger, too, corroding it into something far more tolerable, and he traced that reorientation, that thread of release, mentally following it to more equable ground.

A sigh rasped through him as he shelved a recurrent thought—Alexis' face, her feeble stab at indifference, the way she'd stifled her hurt, refused to meet his line of sight—and instead of thinking, polished off the remnants of his drink. Pushed back in his chair, fingers coming up to press down hard against the bridge of his nose. _What do you do now, Rick? Where do you go from here?_ Broken kid, batty ex, chaotic life, and he'd never really had a clue to begin with. He'd always just felt his way, and on the odd occasion when the chips were down, he fell back on his charm primarily; Alexis' resilience and disquieting maturity, peripheral to that. The ambient glow of his screen dimmed, then went black from inactivity, and he sat immobile for a beat, stared morosely out the window until the glitter of signage and street lamps blurred to multicolor astral smears. And then, compelled by habit or need or some subconscious prompting, one hand reached out, closing around a marble ballpoint pen, the other palmed a page of satiny four-ply stationery, drawing it toward him across the burled surface of the desk. It felt natural, it always had—akin to breathing or loving Alexis—that first touch of pen to paper, the first sloping curl of a word. The initial thought made tangible.

 **Kate,**

 **Writing a letter mere hours after a lengthy phone conversation seems rather tautological—it's a distinctly bookish term, I admit, but as you're a fellow bibliophile, I'm predicting you'll know its definition if not its origin, Little Miss Gogol—but following our discussion, the afternoon swiftly derailed. Compliments of my daughter's flighty, egocentric mother. Yet again. I'm talking Quintinshill, here—messy, fast, brutal. Immediately following our talk, too. Where I upbraided her, told her she was damaging our kid. My kid. Told her to grow up, to be all in or all out. And she looked right at me, wide-eyed, seemingly repentant, and apologized. Which I—in all my idealistic naïveté—took to mean she comprehended on some minimal level the nature of her actions, that we were finally on the same goddamn** _ **chapter**_ **if not the same page. Really, though, it's not her fault. I know my ex, know her character. Her flaws and failings. And if I'm being honest, I should have seen it coming—that she would disappoint my daughter yet again. That there would be unshed tears and broken trust and a bruised heart and a protracted mending process. So yes, I blame her for the way this shitty afternoon turned out, but ultimately? Ultimately, I hold myself responsible.**

Three sharp blows issued from the front door, pulling him from his absorption with all the potency of a cold bucket of water. He'd winced at the intrusive noise, smudged the last 'e', he thought with a scowl, and wrenched himself from the insular refuge of his desk chair. The day had been a disaster, and he had a sinking suspicion that his night was about to take a steep nosedive as well.

Pausing at the threshold, rallying his patience, his calm, he swung the door open, face arranged in smooth lines, unflappably enigmatic, to encounter—for the third time in 24 hours—Meredith. Who peered up at him blearily, swaying like a ship in a storm, the scent of gin rolling off of her in pungent waves.

"Lemme in," she demanded, hand flapping at his chest feebly, and he dazedly complied.

She staggered through the doorway, feet performing a comical rendition of a grapevine, purse slipping off her shoulder, slithering down her arm to combust on the floor—spitting out lipstick, wallet, hairbrush, coins, receipts. Cosmetic shrapnel. This felt like a battle, after all. It always did with her.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, the door meeting the frame thunderously, earning the censure of the elitist Martins in the unit opposite, he was certain. "You have some nerve, coming here fucking _plastered_. After walking out on Alexis."

"'m not drunk," she pivoted sloppily to face him, face incredulous, "jus' a li'l tipsy."

"You blew past 'tipsy' hours ago, Mer. 'Tipsy' is a distant memory. Along with my tolerance." How odd, he reflected, that he sounded so composed, so placid, when his skin felt taut, strained, barely capable of containing the pulse of anger that coursed through him. "I'm calling the town car for you. What hotel are you at?"

"No," she was all recalcitrance, legs quivering with the strain of staying upright, lower lip jutting forward, and he heaved a weary sigh.

"I don't have time for this. What's the name of your hotel?"

"Wanna stay here."

"You're not spending the night here," he said abruptly, his words clipped, nettled, his grip on the phone tight enough to trigger an ache in his joints, "primarily because Alexis waking up to find you here, barely sober, after throwing her over for a goddamn dinner-date-turned-rave would only be adding salt to the wound. But secondarily, I just don't want you here. I can't—can barely stand to speak civilly to you at the moment. So, you've gotta go."

"Rick," she slurred, tilted her head and lowered her lashes in what he assumed was an attempt to persuade him. "Lemme—lemme jus' stay. Jus' for the night."

"Where are you staying, Meredith?" He demanded, brows drawing down, jaw tightening.

Her only response was a watery, doleful stare, chin tucked down obstinately while she swayed unsteadily. This was useless—reasoning, logic, mature discussion.

Swearing, he dropped to a crouch, rifling through the scattered viscera of her handbag for a receipt, a scribbled address, a monogrammed napkin, anything to clue him in as to her accommodations. "Rick," she prompted, voice garbled, as though she still had a mouthful of pinot, and he rose to his feet, faced her warily.

"Miss you, y'know," Meredith said finally, the ridges of her cheekbones, the crest of her ears crimson from the sulfites filtering through her or the exertion of speaking through the haze of intoxication. Or, desire, he registered with a pulse of awareness, stepping back reflexively. "Really, really miss you, 'specially here. 'N the city. Seein' all the—all the places we used t' go 'n eat 'n be together. 'Member how—how good it felt?"

"You left," he reminded her acidly, falling back another step as she advanced, somehow predatory for all her fawn-like bodily control. "After I found you in _our_ bed. Fucking another man. And you just…keep on leaving. So, no. 'How good it felt' is somehow lost amidst those other tender memories."

"Could make you feel good, Rick," his name rolled off her tongue clumsily, and he retreated another step, his bare heels kissing the icy metal of the door. _Trapped_ , his mind supplied, and he glowered at Meredith as she drew close, close, closer until her breasts brushed against the bottom of his ribcage, her breath striking his chin in moist, alcoholic puffs, her hands coming up to rest against the expanse of his chest. "Lemme make you feel good," she whispered, and then drew his head down, lips meeting his in a messy kiss—spanning the junction of his mouth and cheek—and he stilled in shock for just a moment before banding his hands around her upper arms, pressing her stiffly away.

Something like nausea pooled in his stomach, keeping company with the anger knotting itself in his gut. "Mer, stop," he ordered, eyes trained out the window over her shoulder, too rankled to meet her unfocused gaze. Because honest to god, this night had turned into a classic clusterfuck. One for the ages.

"C'mon, Rick," her palms stroked a path to the jut of his hipbones and he caught her wrists to stop her roving. "Lemme stay 'n we'll have a _lot_ of fun, you 'n me and 'member that thing I do with my mouth—"

"Meredith," he halted her brusquely, raising her captive hands, trapping them between their chests, another barrier. " _Where_ are you staying?" He punctuated each word with a halfhearted shake, the motion jostling her teetering frame, ruffling her hair.

For a protracted beat, she regarded him indignantly, chest heaving, nostrils flaring, and then—pansy blue eyes rounding, jerking her wrists free, staggering back—she braced her hands on her knees and unleashed a torrent of vomit. All over his entryway. All over his unshod feet. All over his favorite grey sweatpants.

And as she unceremoniously slumped to the floor, confused, moaning, sticky with the contents of her own stomach, he let his head drop back against the crimson powder-coated steel of his front door—the weariness reaching marrow-deep, the feeling that this cycle, this goddamn pattern would never end, leaving him drained, resigned—before he shoved away from his prop, and wetly padded toward the kitchen sink.

* * *

It had been four days since he'd shuffled a minimally sobered Meredith into a town car, and even 48 hours and a cumulative nine vigorous soapings later, he still grimaced at the thought of that night, failed to feel precisely clean. The whole experience just…lingered with him. Things had gone to shit the morning she arrived, or so he thought, but even he—knowing Meredith and all of the chaos she trailed in her wake—had been surprised at how rapidly and comprehensively the day had continued to unravel. And even more stunned that it ended with him covered in the martini-dominant contents of his ex's stomach. Somehow, though—despite the clamor of cleaning downstairs, said ex's continued retching, and the din of their argument preceding Meredith's literal upheaval—Alexis had slept on none the wiser, and he'd managed to fitfully catch a few scant hours of his own before she bounded down the stairs in search of breakfast. One very large Americano and four Poptarts later, both of them groggily nestled on the couch, he'd warily asked her how she was, warmth radiating in his chest as he drank her in—fine cinnamon hair fuzzed and glowing in the morning light, pastry crumbs and bits of icing haloing her mouth, eyes somber as she considered his words.

"I'm still—I'm sad," she'd admitted quietly, gaze flickering from his face to the indiscriminate program on the screen. "But I guess I wasn't really…" she trailed off, picking at the edge of her strawberry Poptart.

"Wasn't what?" He prompted softly.

"Surprised," she continued on an exhalation, "I wasn't surprised. Because she does this a _lot_. Says she's gonna do one thing and then just—just doesn't."

"You know that doesn't mean she doesn't love you, right? She just...doesn't do a very good job showing it."

"Yeah, I just wish…she showed me she loved me the way that you do," she looked at him then, really looked at him, raising a diminutive hand to brush a swath of hair from her face, blue eyes made singularly vibrant from the film of moisture that had collected in the corners, along her lower lash line.

He'd reached out and pulled her against his side, chest constricting as she curved against him, intertwined their fingers, lapsed into silence punctuated by muted sniffs. And he tried to find the words to soften the blow, but came up empty. Because what did he possibly say to that?

After that, they'd tacitly agreed to avoid anything related to Meredith, letting the subject lie for the time being, and the woman in question had flown back to the west coast the very next day without a word—no goodbyes, no apologies, no acknowledgement that she'd royally screwed their daughter over and ruined his favorite sweats in the space of a single day. She was nothing if not thorough.

And now, four days later—days filled with heartening activities, creatively sumptuous grilled cheeses, and a daughter brightening by slow degrees—he was shrugging into a sports jacket behind a privacy screen, critically scrutinizing a life sized cardboard cutout that depicted him smirking, perfectly coiffed, a shade too smug for his liking. Gina had been all enthusiasm, calling a scanty two days prior to remind him of their impending gala date and to inform him that she'd poached a book reading and signing scrapped by Lehane in favor of an awards ceremony—"5th ave Barnes & Noble, Rick!"—which he'd be attending, no demurs, no cavils, no exceptions. Not that he minded per se. These events never failed to galvanize him, leave him bemused and mildly nonplussed at his own popularity, remind him _why_ he tolerated long nights bowed over his keyboard and days spent fielding Paula's ridiculous inquiries and Gina's nagging requests. It was for this—the curving line of fans craning to catch a glimpse of the Master of the Macabre—for the substantial distance between the solitary boy he'd been and the lauded man he'd become, which he knew said something significant about his psychological limitations. But there it was—he craved the affirmation, wanted to be wanted. Freud would have a field day with him. Whatever.

Gina ducked her buttery head around the screen, eyes sweeping over him evaluatively. "That'll do, I suppose."

He huffed, tugged at the lapels of his blazer. "Jesus, Gina. This is Burberry."

"I was referring to the circles under your eyes," a manicured finger twitched upward proceeded by the arch of one thin eyebrow, "but it actually gives you a rakish aura, come to think of it."

"Kind of you," he groused, running a hand through his hair—it was too long, growing unmanageable—and then held both hands out, palms facing the speckled drop ceiling. "Now, we good to go?"

"Yeah," she nodded, a brief smile—the genuine one that softened him—crossing her face, "table's ready, a line out the door, and your favorite Levenger's been refilled, so it should last for the entirety of the signing."

"Okay, good. Let's—let's head out there, then," he announced inanely and, with a disappointing lack of pageantry, emerged from behind the partition. The room was already charged, people greeting him with enthusiastic cheers and animated waves, which he returned modestly—a staggering number of busty women, he reflected, the preamble of Gina's introductory spiel filtering dimly through his preoccupation— "Ladies, I'm so pleased to see you all here today." Books clutched to their ample chests, makeup immaculately applied, hair flawlessly colored and coiffed—positively Stepford.

And then, eyes skimming the undulating line of humanity, he saw her—an Eberhart in a sea of Van Sant's.

The waterproof surface of her trench glittered with beaded raindrops, her utilitarian topknot fuzzed to curls from the moisture, the pallor of her skin giving off its own milky light—god, she was the tangible equivalent of an elusive word. Tip of the tongue phenomenon made manifest. Familiar, but from where? He willed her wandering eye line to his, but her gaze drifted from the grey panorama beyond the rain-streaked window to the book she cradled, her fingers idly tracing the cover. The title remained inscrutable at this distance, but it stood to reason it was one of his— _arrogant prick, aren't you?_ —and a hot rush of impatience surged through him as he surveyed the three, seven, thirteen, twenty-two people that blockaded him from the soggy girl with the too-bleak eyes.

Goddamnit, he should _know_ her. Remember where he'd seen her if not a name. You didn't forget a girl like that—vital and broken all at once. He wanted to speak to her, ask her to coffee, watch a smile he elicited unbend her stiff mouth, draw her story from her lips via hard-won conversations and painstakingly obtained trust. Even at this distance, he could see the rise and fall of her throat as she swallowed, the way she clutched the book fiercely, too tightly, as though it was something she stood and couldn't bear to lose. He saw it all and it was beautiful. _She_ was beautiful. Mysterious and elusive, the elegant lines of her face dynamic, belying pain and survival and a story he instinctively knew would be as goddamn extraordinary as she was.

Gina was wrapping up her intro, flourishing her hand, now turning to flash a conspiratorial grin at him, and he reluctantly tore his gaze from the waterlogged ingenue. And finally, _finally,_ the line surged forward. Each signature and perfunctory exchange amplifying his anticipation, drawing him another step closer to an introduction, to a _name_. And who _was_ she? He'd seen her somewhere; he'd stake the earnings of his newest novel on it. Different context, though—that had to be it. Situational displacement culpable for his faulty memory. Because she was unforgettable—another flourishing scrawl, a disingenuous grin, gushing sentiment from the Aniston wannabe with Double-D's—and the line lurched forward.

Oh, now Eberhart was fumbling one-handedly in the yawning pocket of her trench, brow furrowed—in irritation? In concentration?—and inelegantly extricated a cell phone, adeptly flipping it open, bringing it to her ear.

 _Damn_ , the woman in front of him had paused expectantly, head tilted for what response he didn't know. "I—you're gonna have to forgive me," he beamed stiffly, peering up at her with an expression he hoped didn't come across as disinterested as he felt, "late nights writing equal long days spent walking about in a stupor. Mind repeating that?"

"Not at all, Mr. Castle," the blonde was all breathy admiration, leaning toward him, obscuring his view of Eberhart as she simpered, coyly instructed him to "make it out to Kelli with an _i_ ".

The blonde skittered away tittering, the line advanced, and there was Eberhart again—looking pissed, features harsh and glacial as she snapped something into the mouthpiece before closing the phone. She went still then, head bowed, gaze trained on the floor. And then suddenly, it wasn't—it was tangling with his own, melting to something softer and inviting and a little stunned, and oh, _god_ , he wasn't breathing. Deliberately, dazedly, he pulled in a shuddery breath, muscles bunching beneath the suddenly stifling summer wool suit as his body coiled to move, to propel him toward her—fortifying himself, trying to stifle the irrational stuttering of his pulse. But just as he found his voice, his footing, his nerve, she blinked once, eyes narrowing in something like regret, and spun delicately on her heel, weaving smoothly between the crush of bodies. Gone—a strangled noise issued from his throat, an unformed verbal attempt to stop her—gone, gone, gone.

With a start, he noted Gina, spindly arms perched akimbo on her narrow hips, pinning him with a bewildered glare— _what the hell, Rick?_ Shit. Yeah, this was mortifying—here he was, frozen in place, staring vacantly into the crowd, spilling unintelligible syllables. Flashing her a weak, placating smile—they'd discuss this later, he sensed it—he sank gingerly into his chair, and then, marshaling his patience, shelving thoughts of Eberhart for later, he flipped the switch—charm smile tipping his lips, warmly greeting the next fan, pulling their battered copy of _Hell Hath no Fury_ toward him, inscribing what he hoped was a passably meaningful excerpt on the half title page, before grunting, startling—Levenger clattering to the floor, mouth slackening in shock—because he did know Eberhart. He _knew_ her. Knew he loathed himself in this moment. And knew he'd fucked up a second chance, a serendipitous moment, another opportunity to rewrite fate.

Because Eberhart—though she'd been soggier, sadder, and far less vibrant—was the glorious woman in red.

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _So...I'm sorry. Again. This whole endeavor in adulting is really draining me dry. Mostly artistically, but also financially, which is one of the factors that's kept me from writing and updating the way I'd like_ — _in the words of Rihanna "work, work, work, work, work". However, I'm back. Ish. And I've missed this story and all of you! This installment has been a long time coming, and I hope it meets with any and all expectations tied to this little reimagining.  
_

 _I hope you guys know that every review and word of encouragement made a difference to me, and that you're the reason this little narrative still has a pulse. Thank you more than I can say, and I swear I'll do what I can to ensure the next installment isn't a culmination of three spotty months worth of effort. As per usual, I'm not entirely satisfied, but I wasn't going to put off the update any longer than I already had. I'd love to hear your thoughts, thanks for sticking it out this far, and I truly hope you elect to follow this to the end_ — _I want you all by my side!_

- _Feministly_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12 : You Shouldn't Be Alone**

 _ **Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.**_

* * *

"What, Sorenson?" Kate snapped testily, a prickling bundle of damp curls trapped between her cheek and the mobile's earpiece, failing miserably to temper her annoyance at his untimely interruption. She'd braved the elements, foregone sleep in favor of standing behind a line of immaculately coiffed bimbos, and was freezing her ass off in the frigid interior of the store—all dripping coat and limp clothing and icy, clammy skin—for the promise of a perfunctory, impersonal meeting. Was she really that pathetic, that besotted, that addlepated by the way his hair fell so raffishly over his forehead and his eyes reflected the most compelling dichotomy of youthful charm and world weariness? Resoundingly, humiliatingly yes. All she wanted was the opportunity to talk to him, to request a personalized inscription and relish a few well-earned minutes of normalcy before burying herself in the scanty details of their case. And the gathering silence on the other line told her the chances of that reprieve transpiring were slim to none. "What is it?" She repeated, voice wary now, gut reflexively tightening at his pause.

"They—they found another body," he ground out, his response heavy with defeat, regret, self-reproach, and she stiffened as a wave of nausea rolled through her. _Goddamnit._

"Are you sure? But his cooling off period, it's—it hasn't been long enough. And where? Not the—not the mass gravesite again, it couldn't be. We had a patrol detail assigned to drive by periodically, he would've seen it. Would've thought it was too risky." She questioned after a beat, prattling voice just this side of unsteady—hating herself for the tremor she couldn't entirely ascribe to the vigorous industrial AC—and turned to face the bordering windows. The rain-lashed panes distorted passing cars, humanity, and flickering traffic lights, and she squinted at the waning cherry glow of a cab's tail lights as it careened onto 46th, dazed and restive by dizzying turns. The need to act, to _do_ , swamping her, causing her fingers to quiver with latent energy. _What the hell happened?_ Her scalp felt too tight from her pinched topknot, her waterlogged clothes abrasive, her mouth desiccated. Things had gone seemingly sideways in the space of a breath—it was too soon, too close to the last murder, his whole timeline moved forward by several months, and the implications of this sudden shift were sickeningly inscrutable. Was he hunting for a replacement even now? And how in god's name had they both, _both_ , overlooked the disappearance of the latest victim? Not picked it up via local news or word of mouth? Provided the body was, in fact, one of his.

"No doubt it's him. Same place, same MO, same COD. Has his mark all over it."

"But how—"

"Well, how do you think?" he snapped, voice crackling with tempered rage, "Maybe he was watching us, Beckett. Maybe he found a window in the detail's route, timed it out for the body drop. Or the son-of-a-bitch had no knowledge of the drive-by, and he really is just that lucky. But either way, it's him. It's him, and I know it's him, and I—"

Sorenson stopped abruptly, overwrought or infuriated or both, and the line went flat, the hum of the room, her intrusive thoughts rushing to fill the vacuum his pause created. She was grateful for the sharp edges of her mother's book, the way they scored the flesh of her palms, dug unforgivingly into the skin of her stomach even through the damp cotton trench—it anchored her to the moment despite the distant, multitudinous constellation of thoughts she couldn't quite collect and the self-possession she couldn't quite muster.

Willing her voice to steady, she turned back to the conversation, to reality, to the remote safety of facts. For now, for this moment and for the sake of that small, cold body lying prone in a field, she could hold herself together. Even if she was all but unraveling at the seams. "So, we're operating on the assumption it's him and not a copycat? Even with the details—minimal though they were—revealed by the press?"

"Right."

"Okay, right" her features hardened reflexively as she braced herself, a grimace puckering her mouth, narrowing her eyes, and she embraced it, needed it—her war mask. "And we know this because of—"

"The bruising on the victim's neck, the age, gender, and general profile, not to mention the location. Who else would It's him, it's gotta be. I just—I feel it."

"And if—if patrol—did you talk to them? I mean, did someone tell them not to handle the remains—"

"They're not that stupid, Beckett, they followed protocol."

"Right," she blinked, swallowed the questions, concerns crawling their way up her throat. This case was enough of a clusterfuck, and the last thing they needed was some over-zealous, idiotically intrepid rookie further muddying the waters. Yet another motivating factor—she needed to go, needed to be at the scene, needed to scrutinize every move, every action for legality and precision. Because situational clusterfuck or no—scanty information, even less physical evidence, and the antagonizing absence of a motive—it was _her_ clusterfuck, and this case would _not_ fall about their ears in court. The stakes were too high for a slip-up, lives riding on every decision made.

"Okay. So—"

"So, I'll—I'll meet you there."

"Yeah, I'm on my way now." God. His voice was so rough she wanted to reach out and soothe it, blunt its ragged edges. Because Sorenson wasn't the only one with an infallible intuition, wasn't the only one who _felt it_. Her free hand clutched _A Rose for Everafter_ , fingers curled so tight the knuckles creaked in protest, fighting to contain the aggressive swell of emotion in her chest, the muted echoes of Lanie's warm contralto— _"kids are the worst"_ —and the bright, pervasive anger that threatened to shred what remained of her tissue-thin composure.

"See you in forty," Kate murmured flatly, somehow betraying nothing of her latent emotion, and snapped the phone closed. _You need to move, need to go, to do your job_ , she acknowledged, and instead surveyed the utilitarian Frieze carpet tiles, the contrast of her inky boots against the worn camel pile a better, safer vista than what awaited her in Vinegar Hill—small, prone body swelling with heat and decay, delicate limbs lying at odd angles, skin velvety as peach flesh marred by bruises and livor mortis. Dozens of stills to add to her bank of nightmarish kindling; images she could never completely scrub from her memory, never mind the passage of time or happier recollections. _Kids are the worst_. Regardless of the outcome of this case, each boy was destined to live on in her mind—adjacent to her mother, her thoughts a sentient graveyard—and she considered it a brutal honor. Grisly, and painful, and right that they never be forgotten. And if that was masochistic or morbid or wrong, she embraced it—they deserved to live on in whatever way they could, their truncated existences dignified by the ache forever carried by innumerable officers, detectives, first responders, parents, siblings, friends, and empathic strangers. And she'd never wanted more to talk to Alex, their work injunction—Montgomery's _actual_ injunction—be damned. To relax her throat, let the cramping words tumble free, lay it all at his feet—the sleepless nights, the haunting dreams, the case's insuperable barricades, the broken bodies, Sorenson's prickly superiority, the weight of it all bowing, trammeling her.

Instead, she pocketed the phone, willing thoughts of Alex, of broken bodies, of her mother, of self away, and shrugged into an arrantly professional mindset, as comfortingly familiar as her oldest cashmere sweater. Face severe, war mask back in place, she turned to face the folding table for a final, rueful glance of her favorite author before reentrance to reality and felt something sing, slip, steal through her, breath snagging in her chest. At seven-years-old, she'd taken the cosmetic initiative to plug in her mother's Revlon curling iron, incentivized by a rerun of _The Little Princess_ and Shirley's enviable sausage curls, and in her glamour-induced rush, had failed to distance her fingers from the hot blade. She'd come to on the tiled floor of her parents' master suite, technicolor posphenes still dancing in her vision, and quietly, stumblingly stowed the offending object in the cabinet beneath her mother's sink.

Meeting his eyes was reminiscent of that afternoon—for hours, everything blurred and muffled, pins and needles in her hands and feet, a bewildering experience that rendered the world a nebulous watercolor smear. She'd been afraid and mystified and not a little awed then, at the power, the might, the raw energy such a seemingly innocuous object could channel, and those sensations—remotely encountered, but with all the knockdown wherewithal of sixteen years ago—coursed, current-like, through her now. With a glance. _You're an idiot_ , she chided herself, scorning her overblown romanticism and paradoxically bemoaning a soon-to-be foregone opportunity, because his _eyes_ were so goddamn direct, so much more than she'd expected. The superficiality had drained from them, and something suspiciously like authenticity had inhabited his gaze. Something like reciprocity, too— _oh, god, enough with the egotism, Kate_. And if she'd regretted leaving before, the sensation of loss was manifold now, locking her knees for the space of a breath, hampering her shallow breaths, thawing her scowl into an aspect she didn't put a name to, refused to label. It was three seconds, maybe four, and then reality barreled into her—Sorenson, the case, a small body—uncoupling her joints, and wincing once, wistfully, she spun on one sodden heel and bobbed, wove, danced between bodies until she pushed through the fire-rated double doors and into the ashy, fading light.

A wall of choking humidity and pinprick precipitation assaulted her as she withdrew from the bookstore, senses humming, breaths levelling out, a deluge of thoughts advancing. He'd looked at her so _intently_ , eyes a fathomless indigo and remarkably artless—far more so than his publicity shoots or glossy book jackets revealed—and held her gaze as his broad frame tensed, preparing to stand she surmised, made to move toward her before checking himself. Rick Castle, master of the macabre, recipient of the Tom Straw award, and self-proclaimed womanizer had—for the space of a wildly gratifying moment—regarded her with something very like wonder and desire. And she didn't quite know what to do about that. Sucking in a shuddering breath, blinking the glaze of rain from her lashes, she curved a chilled palm around the mottled column of her neck and fought to recollect herself. _Idiot_ , she huffed, awash in the oddest intermingling of self-deprecation and excitement, because yeah, she'd caught Rick Castle's attention, but a child was dead.

Just like that, the atmosphere shifted, and her face shuttered, brows knitting together as she strode toward her Crown Vic and a desecrated grave, leaving her discomposure, her rising cheer, and a rabble of butterflies on the rain-slicked curb.

* * *

The gravel peppered over sparse grass crepitated beneath her Vic's tires as she came to a rolling stop in a vacant lot spangled at intervals with red and blue. In the distance, a negligible barrier of police tape fluttered in a wet gust of wind, the misshapen parallelogram surrounded by feebs in trenches and officers in blues rendered black from the steady rain. Roughly, she threw the car into park, deconstructed her bun—fingers snagging painfully in the snarled mass of damp hair—and quickly restored it to a minimally tamed topknot. She took a deep breath, chest expanding, ribs straining against the inflexible band of her trench's sash, and opened the door, exited the car, and slammed it to in one fluid motion. Grimly, she made her way down a steep decline, centering her weight on her heels to keep from slipping on the slick grass, dodging the bottles, wrappers, trash bags, and other unidentifiable, discolored dreck that littered her path. Sorenson stood to far right, his stern profile visible over the upturned collar of his coat, watching the harried proceedings dispassionately, and she slowly padded over, coming abreast of him wordlessly.

Without even a glance in her direction, he extended a cup of coffee—a peace offering, perhaps—and she murmured unintelligible thanks, wrapping her hands around the wet cardboard and taking a draw on the now-lukewarm Americano. Will raised his own cup, and when he lowered it, his gaze flickered to her, eyes rivaling her own for fatigue and solemnity. Honestly, he wasn't a total jackass—they knocked heads frequently enough, but only because he was so accustomed to being right. Something she could relate to, if she was honest. So she bent her mouth in the faintest of smiles, and he returned it hesitantly. "Helluva day," he commented, and tipped his head back to survey the low-lying cloud cover, sky the color of a dingy wife-beater.

"The techs find anything in the rain?" Doubtful, she mused dully, and saw from the way Sorenson's jaw tautened that they hadn't. "Maybe Lanie'll find something useable," she continued with optimism she didn't feel and he bobbed his head once.

"If there's anything recoverable, she'll find it. She's good." He appended, the compliment surprising and gratifying her.

"She's the best," Kate corrected, but without any bite, careful not to dismiss his tentative steps toward a state of mutual peace. Everything about this thing between them was tentative, delicate—an expansive floor of eggshells.

He squinted against the rain, blinked irritably—a dusting of rain limned his lashes, she realized—and took another swallow of coffee. "We'll head over in a minute. They're securing the scene, but shouldn't be too much longer now."

"Lanie called me, said she'll be along any minute," she informed him, and took another hit of the full-bodied brew, "and thanks for this. Coffee's good."

"Day like this, anything over 98.6 is miraculous," Will murmured, and she pressed her lips together, lifted her disintegrating cup to hide a smile.

" _Miraculous._ Didn't think you used words like that, Sorenson."

"What, hopeful? Happy?"

"More than three syllables," she quipped, and he huffed appreciatively, swiveled his head to survey her with narrowed eyes. Water was beaded on the hooked tip of his nose, swaying pendulously, and she fought the urge to collect it with a finger.

"You're testy today," he observed wryly, "in the best way."

 _In the best way?_ "Well, it's amazing what five solid hours of sleep can do for a girl."

"Five hours? What do you think this is, Beckett? Holiday? With you AWOL, snuggled in your bed while the rest of us hoof it at the precinct, it's hardly a wonder this case is such a debacle. Makes Lindberg look like child's play." Oh, banter. Or rather, knife-edged humor interspersed with a modicum of truth. This was good, she decided. Albeit, unexpected—humor was neutral ground, a modality most cops defaulted to, and a bang-up distractor, besides. Honestly, she wasn't sure what to make of his waffling temperament, but there was that maxim about gifts and horses and mouths, and who was she to question an objectively good development?

" _Wonder_ ," she regarded him, head tip-tilted, "a disappointing number of syllables, but you've got a surprisingly optimistic vocabulary, there."

"Yet another impressive addition to my resume."

"Well, you need all the help you can get—"

"Katherine Beckett—" she jerked in dismay at the sound of her full name—feeling sixteen and truant and ripe for a heated lecture—pirouetted neatly, then bit back the smile that curled at the edges of her mouth. "Get your skinny ass over here and help me with my goddamn collection kits, would you?"

The woman was a goddess, Kate decided—hair immaculate even in the rain, flawless makeup, curves apparent even in her unflattering jumpsuit. "You need to pare down, Lane," she chided, but started up the hill regardless, "maybe leave the chem set and compound microscope at the lab next time."

"How does it feel to aim for humor but always miss so completely?" She snipped, flashed a pert grin, raked an assessing gaze over Kate's disheveled appearance. "Were you rolling in the grass? What happened to your hair?"

"Nice to know I can always count on you for an ego boost."

"Yeah, yeah, if you wanna feel good about yourself, I have a feeling asshat agent over there would be happy to supply some choice remarks on some of the finer points of your person," the ME quipped, and handed Kate a camera bag and half-eaten bagel.

"You mind keeping it down? He may be an asshat, but he's also an agent, and there are these requirements the FBI has—"

"Probably because deaf agents are a real downer—"

"Sensitive of you. But yeah, I'm guessing he topped ANSI's standards by more than a few hertz," she groused, pinning Lanie with a pointed look, and the other woman rolled her eyes in response. "How're you doing?" She continued, and with that vague allusion to the scene beyond the yellow tape, all levity dissolved like sugar in piping tea. Lanie turned to her, all fathomless eyes and hard-set features, and Kate blinked once in understanding before dropping her gaze. No need to elaborate. Some moments, words didn't reach— _"Sorry is shallow and empty. I hate sorry"—_ and she, more than anyone, grasped that, appreciated, deeply valued Lanie's solemn reserve. At times, silence was the greatest homage, the most profound tribute.

Both women came to stand at Sorenson's elbow, and Kate took a generous bite of Lanie's seed studded bagel before nonchalantly proffering what remained to the ME. "'S good," she managed around the mouthful, "Kossar's?"

"Brooklyn B&C, you glutton," Lanie quipped through a simpering smile, and started back in on her misappropriated breakfast, "and it's nice to see you, too, SA Sorenson."

God, he _smiled_ at her, she observed bemusedly. Why was it that she continually dipped below his appallingly stunted threshold for tolerance while everyone else got a free pass? Lanie would say it had something to do with sublimated attraction, but that only meant this was the adult equivalent of a schoolyard situation—pulling her proverbial pigtails to express affection—and as a kid, she'd unhesitatingly socked those handsy little mealworms in the nose. Which seemed a rather unadvisable resolution to her current dilemma. So that left her…where? Oh, yeah—exchanging verbal barbs and engaging in constant one-upmanship. Excellent.

"Dr. Parish," he nodded, all polish and politesse, "you ready for this?"

"Can't say that I am," she remarked coolly, readjusting her grip on the collection kit, peering detachedly at the scene unfolding before them. "But situations like this call for a _Geronimo_ attitude. You don't dare dip your toes in the water or you'll never have the nerve to take the plunge."

A tech, featureless and Lilliputian from this distance, looked their way and waved a beckoning hand. And Lanie huffed a sigh, squared her shoulders, and regarded them both resignedly. "So I guess I'll see you on the way down."

* * *

She'd left any preconceived expectations behind the tape, but even after poring over the crime scene photos, even after steeling herself, after stowing any and all emotion—so she'd naively assumed—in some dark, inaccessible corner of her mind, actually seeing him siphoned the air from her chest. Sat curdled and sour in her stomach, flooded her mouth with bitterness. The 16th—the special victim's unit they often partnered with—had been the responding team for Deacon's case, had been the hands that gently disinterred him from a shallow grave loamy soil, foil wrappers, and hypodermics. A couple of Lil Jon impersonators used this particular grove of trees as their own arboreal hangout, the ideal place to relax, smoke a joint, shoot up, and keep the company of—unbeknownst to them—five silenced companions. The night before one of their drug-centric capers, a fierce storm had blown through, the deluge floating off the dirt sparsely blanketing Deacon, and a nameless 911 operator had listened as some jumped in, strung out, puffed up, Glock-wielding kid had bawled unintelligibly over the line about a "hand in the fucking ground".

So she hadn't actually been there for the preliminaries. She'd been myopically fixated on her mother's case, bribing city officials, and scooping her father off of vomit-slicked floors. And while she'd read the reports—knew the details backwards and forwards, knew the syntax and punctuation and sentence structure, knew them the way Czerny knew Beethoven or Hawking knew cosmology—rote memorization of all those details was no preparation whatsoever for this moment, for the weight of reality.

He looked very small, she contemplated, suddenly regretting that impetuous bite of Lanie's bagel. Waxy and chimerical and devastating. Nothing like the removed quality of the photos. Americano sloshing in her stomach, she followed behind Lanie, treading only where the other woman had placed her feet, and watched as the ME pulled a pair of exam gloves from her jumpsuit pocket, donned them, knelt beside the body. Lanie's movements were slow, gentle, reverent as she lifted a rigid arm, brushed leaves from his mottled chest, examined bruises and lacerations.

"He didn't even bother to bury this one," Will's voice pulled her focus, lifted her gaze, and she shifted uneasily at the intensity with which he regarded her. _Don't try to read me, jackass._

"I noticed the same thing." Goddamn, her voice sounded thready, a little tremulous. Not at all in line with the image she wanted to project. Clearing her throat, pulling herself straighter, she forced herself to meet his eyes steadily, to ignore the churning in her gut. "Any thoughts as to why?"

"We'll add it to the profile," he equivocated, and let his eyes drift back to the grim tableau.

"Who called it in?" She asked, gratified that her voice reflected a strength she didn't feel.

"Don't know. It was anonymous, from a payphone on Hudson." He didn't elaborate, but she knew they were both harboring the same insidious thought, both questioning the source—good Samaritan or vaunting perp.

 _So goddamn small._

* * *

It was hours later—when the dove gray sky had shifted to charcoal and then again to a blunted onyx—sitting in the cracked leather of her Vic's driver's seat, taking slow sips of the stale, sultry air that she felt the first traces of the onslaught to come, the first hint of the grief that would ride raw and roughshod over her in the early morning hours. This was a different upending, a quieter anguish than when she'd observed her first autopsy. It was regret and fury and perplexity and abject horror with no proper outlet. It was guilt—she was a sentinel, and this had happened on her watch, negating all of their grueling efforts and sleepless nights and hopeless days. It was fear—that even with all of her training, her intellect, her passion and drive, another life would end prematurely, another boy begging for life and oxygen in his final moments. And it was shame—because somewhere in rural upstate New York, or coastal New Jersey, or in Pennsylvania off the Susquehanna was a kind family with an indomitable mother at the helm, a woman who had hoped against all hope, had hung fliers and organized search parties and tearfully implored her son's captor on some hokey local news syndicate— _I'll do anything, pay you whatever you want, just don't hurt him—_ and Kate would have to take all of that hope away and give her nothing but a corpse in return.

She didn't remember the drive over, or even exiting the vehicle, but she found herself on the steps to the 12th and took it as some cosmic sign. A proper outlet. So she put in the work—started on the paperwork, composed an exhaustive briefing she'd deliver to Montgomery in the morning, and an exigent statement in the event the press got wind of this. And when she finally looked up again, scrutinizing the clock with gritty eyes, it was 10:26 and she had nothing left to distract her. _It's time to go home. To face the reckoning._

To confront herself.

Unlike her fugue-like return to the precinct, she did remember the drive home. The neon glow of some crumbling liquor store beckoned, and she considered stopping to pick up a bottle of cheap tequila, but an article she'd read last week on alcoholism and heredity— _the sins of the father_ —was a surefire interdiction. And on she drove. And then she parked. Rode the lift in silence. Unlocked her door with preternatural calm. Pushed it to behind her. Deposited her keys on an impractically small table. Drifted to her couch. And sat.

It was an odd sensation. Unspooling like this. Coming apart so neatly and completely and apathetically, hands shaking, breaths coming hot and far too close together, intrusive thoughts tumbling one over the other over the other until her head was aching, swimming with remembrances of dead children and evocations of weeping parents. No tears on her part, though, and it was something of a disappointment—much like an exhaustive bout of vomiting quelled nausea, she theorized that a crying jag would salve her wounds, ease her distress. But her eyes remained gritty, and the knot in her stomach screwed tighter, and she simply sat with her hands on her knees, palms facing skyward in wordless supplication for a reprieve. For the stress to abate.

And she thought of Alex, sitting there, quivering like a leaf in a brisk wind, and considered him, his words, the way his voice rinsed viscously over her. _Tell me something real_ , he'd implored. _Fine is meaningless. Really, how are you?_ And if ever there was a moment she was most herself—brokenness coalesced, no energy in reserve for witticisms or flirtation, minimal coping skills drained, wrung dry, and benched—it was here and now. Maybe she was giving him what he'd petitioned. Maybe she was seeing how far she could push this, seeing if this conversation—bloody and real and not at all _fine—_ would signal his retreat. Because if he was going to leave when things got gritty, if desertion was imminent at some point, then at least it was on her terms, her timeline.

"Kate," his greeting coursed through her, more warm and ardent, more grateful than something as arbitrary as a simple phone call justified. "I was thinking about you this afternoon. Wrapped up this inane, tedious work thing, and I passed by Ralph's on my way home and wondered if you've ever had the exquisite pleasure of one of their lattes. Let me tell you, my friend, they are _life changing_ —simultaneously frothy and substantial, which is a contradiction in terms, I know, but…" he trailed off, abandoning his soliloquy when nothing issued from her end. "Kate?" He intoned after a beat. The magnitude of concern he'd injected into one paltry syllable was simply remarkable, and she released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"Yeah," she countered, and—oh, the tremor was back, as was that infuriatingly pinched quality. She swallowed convulsively, willed it away, tried again. "Yeah, I'm—I'm here."

"Are you okay?" Of course that would be his primary consideration—he wanted to take care of everyone, from his mom, to his kid, to her. He wouldn't be Alex if he didn't have a deep seated, misguided messiah complex.

"No," she conceded, and it was easier than she'd expected, the admission rolling off of her tongue as easily as her name off of his. "There are some things you can't unsee, can't unknow. You understand? It's—some things are so heavy you can never shake them off—" her mother's case files, her father buried alive in a bottle, children brutally snuffed out and callously discarded, "—and I know this is part and parcel of the job. I mean, I literally signed up for this. Scrawled my name on the dotted line, devoted my life to service, and I don't regret it, really. But sometimes—" she broke off, her meandering discourse hitting a wall.

"Sometimes what?" He prompted, coaxed, his voice so soft, so tempered—as though she were blown glass or spun sugar. _You can't break something broken, Alex._

"I don't know. Sometimes…it aches. Compartmentalizing is a learned skill, and I'm good at it. Excellent, really. A fucking pro. But—but this—this case," she stammered, struggling to explain without revealing any salient details, without discussing evidence to which civilians could never be privy, "it's like—it's curled up in my mind. It's made a home there. It's what I eat and sleep and breathe right now, and if you knew what was going on, if you knew who we're hunting, you would know why that was right. Why anything less than obsession on my part would be—would be wrong. Miles, _leagues_ from simply wrong, actually. And maybe, when we've put this thing to bed, and the files and photos are in banker boxes, collecting dust in some storage room, and when the perp has a needle in his arm and is forced to confront the friends, the family whose lives and hope he _razed_ , when he sees them through a single pane of glass, judging him as he lies helpless, strapped to a table, maybe _then_ , just maybe, I'll breathe a little easier. And maybe the things I've seen, the things I know will fade to specters. Maybe they won't weigh me down quite so—quite so—"

 _There. Your true colors revealed. The whole monochromatic spectrum. Every bleached and careworn shade._ She waited on a knife's edge—for the tell-tale snick of disconnection or the comforting growl of his voice, she couldn't quite say.

"You shouldn't be alone." And that's when the tears finally came. The asymptomatic kind, sans hitched breathing or jerking shoulders or tremulous words. Just a steady stream of grief, one she couldn't stem even if she'd wanted.

"I'm—"

"Don't tell me you're fine, I swear to _god,_ Kate. I—I can't fix it, as much as I'd like to. I mean, I really wish I could. But just do this for me—don't try to deny or invalidate your suffering. I don't—I don't want you to be alone in it." He was such a _good_ man, she mused, and brushed at her eyes, smudged the mascara on her water-spiked lashes.

"I was going to say that's why I called you."

"What?" She'd lost him, or rather, he'd dropped the thread of his original comment.

"You said I shouldn't be alone, and I was going to tell you 'that's why I called you'," she intimated, curling in on herself like a touch-me-not, cradling the phone against her shoulder. Shocking the hell out of him was supremely gratifying, she decided.

"Oh," he murmured, sounding duly contrite.

"Yeah, oh. You kinda flew off the handle there, Rorschach."

"Weird, I know," he huffed sheepishly, and she could almost envision him pressing a soothing palm against the nape of his neck, wished not for the first time she knew what he looked like. "Especially considering how open and refreshingly transparent you are as a rule. Crazy how I might expect a different type of sentence. Something resembling an evasion as opposed to—"

"The direct and honest response I gave you just now?" She halted his—somewhat surprisingly—charming run on, disarming him with her candor. Again, supremely gratifying.

"Yes. That," he admitted, and there was a smile in his response. Not one with teeth, she knew, but the kind that curved the mouth, reached the eyes and rounded the cheeks—soft, gentle. "So you're not fine but you're not alone," he syllogized and she quirked a smile, irritably blotted at the wetness on her face.

"That's the long and short of it, yeah."

"You don't have to be bulletproof with me, Kate. I know out there, with your job, even with your family, you do. But not here." Bulletproof, no. She didn't think she needed any armor with him, and there was a thrill in inching her guard downwards, dismantling her walls with each conversation. But complete transparency? Baring it all? That was a pipe dream, that was folly. Not with this case, at any rate. And not yet, not while this thing between them still had the sheen of something new, still inspired impulsive calls and irrepressible smiles. She didn't trust herself in this companionate honeymoon period.

"I'm beginning to believe that," she allowed, voice soft. Dimly, she perceived a hollow pang in her stomach, realized the last—in point of fact, the only—thing she'd eaten today was a mouthful of bread and the coffee Sorenson had foisted on her at the scene. With a sigh, she unfurled, moved from the couch to her narrow galley kitchen. "And it helps, not having to slog through everything independently."

"You spend a lot of time voluntarily climbing inside the minds of uncommonly evil individuals, and those are some deep, dark holes to scale, to wend your way out of," he remarked, and she was struck afresh by how attuned he was to her own thoughts, his ability to pare away the outer, conventional layers of their conversations and find the meat of the matter.

"I do," she agreed, jerking open the freezer door, indifferently surveying its ice burned contents before shoving it to. "And while at times I'd like to unburden myself, you have to realize that there's protocol in place that prohibits me from disclosing information pertinent to current cases, and furthermore, there's—there's the ethical side of things, too. There are some things I would never discuss because I feel—I guess I feel like it would be a sort of…betrayal. In regards to the victims, I mean."

"Like you're treading on their graves?" He posited and she paused in her foraging, realized tears were still leaking from the corners of her eyes, swept the side of a hand beneath her lower lashes.

"Um, yeah. That's a close comparison."

"I can understand that. And I respect it—your efforts to always remain above reproach. Whenever you _do_ want to share, however, and whatever you're able, I hope you consider me a safe and discreet sounding board."

"Do you really think I'm still straddling that borderline?" She was too honest tonight, grief making her bold.

"Oh," he sounded thrown by the rhetorical question, "I—well, I'd like to think we've moved past that figurative line in the sand, yeah." The words were spoken warily, too hesitantly for comfort.

"I for one feel like it's behind us, lying somewhere between absentee exes and the monologue I just rattled off, and if you felt that way, too—like you claim you do—then what are you really asking, Alex?" Interest piqued, she shuffled to prop herself against the cheap Formica countertop, felt her brow cinch together in perplexity. Obviously something was gnawing at him, and she felt those same teeth worrying at her gut, kicking up a flurry of apprehension. _Is this where you back off, walk away, let me down easy, Alex? Tell me we should retreat behind the line again, that it's just too much?_

That she was too much.

She could hear him shifting the receiver as he considered, the creaking protests of the plastic as he banded his hand around it, pressed the mouthpiece against his jaw. These audible moments—the clatter of a spoon in his sink, the knock of a door he pushed to, the way his breath roared in her ear in the moments before his laugh broke through—they made their conversations singularly intimate, reminded her that the disembodied voice she'd come to trust belonged to a flesh-and-blood man with a little girl and a batty ex and a harebrained mother and an auspicious career. That in the broader scope of his existence, to date, she had played a relatively minor supporting role—providing fleeting conversations and a handful of letters and more baggage than the underside of a Greyhound bus. But despite her rather dampening personal contributions, despite the foreboding that he'd open his eyes a little too wide one day and see her scars in a glaringly new and more merciless light, this was _Alex_. Who had restored a long lost book to her; who attended to her words and struggles with the gentlest of patience; who spoke with the silver-tongued ease of a poet; who voiced her inmost thoughts with clairvoyant aplomb; who sent her letters replete with secrets and hope and heart; who foreswore _sorry_ but injected real empathy into every conversation;who didn't accept _fine_ despite her insistences; who embodied wisdom and kindness and steadiness. Alex. Who promised, planned to overstay his welcome. And if she couldn't let him in, at least a little, then no one would ever make it over her walls. She would live and die a fortress.

"I guess…never mind, it's—it's—I don't know." He finally muttered, much to her consternation.

"As with _fine,_ Alex, _I don't know_ is a non-answer. _What_ don't you know."

"This could get meta real quick, detective," he parried dryly, and she rolled her eyes at his abstract humor.

"You don't know what you don't know? Is that what you're saying?"

"I guess I'm—" he paused, the beat charged with latent energy, and she shifted uneasily, a pulse of anticipation coursing through her because something, _something_ meaningful was lodged in his throat, and it was one cogent thought away from ripping free. "Okay, I guess I want to know if the line between my ex and your case is the only one we're gonna cross together. Because I think—I think I want more than this." Her body tautened at his declaration, heart kicking at her ribs—from dismay or satisfaction, she couldn't quite tell. _More, Alex?_ "I think—no, I _know_ —I want us to meet, Kate. And I'm sorry for the shitty timing, and sorry that this is such an _as the spirit moves_ moment I'm springing on you, and if you don't think you might want that at some point, then please, please just disregard the last thirteen seconds of this call and let's consign this misbegotten conversation to a poorly lit corner of both of our memories, chalk it up to the late hour and stressors of a pretty terrible day. But if you do…" His voice softened, his sentence trailing smoke-like, unfinished and laden with meaning.

"I don't know," she heard herself say, intonation flat, nonplussed, inscrutable.

There was a beat before he replied, a collective moment in which her heart lurched. "That's fine, just—just forget I mentioned it." The words were so kind, so gentle, she knew there was pain beneath, and that knowledge galvanized her.

"It wasn't a no. Really. It was—just give me some time. To think about it," her correction tumbled out inelegantly, but they were _loose_ and _there_ and she hadn't said no, which was a miraculous personal triumph on par with the fishes and loaves phenomenon.

"We can work with that." The glow of contentment was back in his voice now, and it pulled a reciprocal smile from her. Yeah, it wasn't a no. It was a bid for time—to process, to prepare, to plan. It was an _I can't bear any more personal disturbances today, Alex._ But it was far from a no. Miles from it, in fact.

She shifted gears, dropping a non-sequitur to reign the talk in, redirect the trajectory to safer territory. "What about you? Are you okay? We only ever talked about me."

And bless him, he tacitly complied, transitioning with gracious ease. "Oh, I'm good. I had a work thing today—rubbed shoulders with some professional lightweights, smiled until my jaw felt arthritic, the same old same old, you know? After that I came home and made enchiladas with my kid, watched a movie, and then fielded a call from my Girl Friday."

"Your Girl Friday, huh?" She'd been called worse, she reflected wryly.

"We'll work on that, too," he allowed, and she laughed unsteadily—marginally amused, but more vastly relieved than anything. He was okay, and they were okay. She didn't know, and he accepted that. This thing—through some celestial benediction—was still in one semi-stable piece, and her hesitation, her walls hadn't killed it. And if that wasn't akin to magic or fate or some other higher power endorsed by Alex in all of his optimism, she didn't know what to call it.

Of course she wanted to cross another line.

Of course she wanted to meet.

* * *

They'd retreated, falling into more comfortable dialogue—discussing the intricate though admittedly boilerplate quality of Dan Brown's newest thriller and Alex's latest cooking fiasco, which involved a pressure cooker and an ill-fated bag of pintos—and by the time she terminated the call, the smile that had flickered throughout the evening was now permanently affixed, her tension abated if only for the moment. Their ability to transition so seamlessly from one diverse topic to the next—death and darkness, walls and hope, literature and elitism, cuisine and humiliation—was vitalizing, and left her radiant. A diaphanous reflection stared back at her from the dusty kitchen window, and her face, even mirrored dimly, was soft and bright from the afterglow of their repartee. _And he wants to meet._ Glancing quickly at her microwave's digital display, she grimaced—11:52—and resumed scrounging for a proper meal, finally settling on a can of Spaghettios. Doing away with the lid, she ate her meal cold, the tang of aluminum heavy in her mouth, and washed it all down with a glass of tepid water. Ah, the grand life of a single, working girl, she reflected dryly, and then busied herself with tidying the kitchen.

Despite her swollen eyes and midnight having come and gone, she'd braved the ramshackle lift to retrieve her mail, taking comfort in the tedium of her routine. Safely restored to her apartment, padlock and security chain engaged, she shuffled through bill statements and advertisements, political letters and credit card offers, and exhumed two letters—Alex and her father. She resisted the familiar swell of anger, stared at her name writ in her father's confident scrawl—the distinctive loop of the _K_ , the bold linearity of his lettering. Growing up, notes and compositions—most in legalese, perfectly legible but entirely inscrutable—had littered her parents' home. Stacks of canary yellow paper and pale blue post-its, all a record of where he'd been, a testament to his dogged professionality—and his barely contained chaos, her mother would argue. She'd wanted that for herself when she was young, envisioned being so studious, so engrossed, so impassioned that she'd have to paper the world with her thoughts, would have no room for them in her head. How she'd be a revolutionary enacting change. Tonight, that starry-eyed girl was as dim and remote as her watery window-pane reflection.

Stiffly, she relegated her father's missive to her entryway console, resolving to read it when her emotions weren't quite so near the surface, and turned instead to Alex's words.

 **Kate,**

 **Writing a letter mere hours after a lengthy phone conversation seems rather tautological—it's a distinctly bookish term, I admit, but as you're a fellow bibliophile, I'm predicting you'll know its definition if not its origin, Little Miss Gogol—but following our discussion, the afternoon swiftly derailed. Compliments of my daughter's flighty, egocentric mother. Yet again. I'm talking Quintinshill, here—messy, fast, brutal. Immediately following our talk, too. Where I upbraided her, told her she was damaging our kid. My kid. Told her to grow up, to be all in or all out. And she looked right at me, wide-eyed, seemingly repentant, and apologized. Which I—in all my idealistic naïveté—took to mean she comprehended on some minimal level the nature of her actions, that we were finally on the same goddamn** _ **chapter**_ **if not the same page. Really, though, it's not her fault. I know my ex, know her character. Her flaws and failings. And if I'm being honest, I should have seen it coming—that she would disappoint my daughter yet again. That there would be unshed tears and broken trust and a bruised heart and a protracted mending process. So yes, I blame her for the way this shitty afternoon turned out, but ultimately? Ultimately, I hold myself responsible.**

There was a break in the page—unusual for him—a shift in focus and intensity, and she read on, interest piqued.

 **Okay. So you know how I used the Quintinshill rail disaster as an historical metaphor to cleverly describe the state of affairs that exists between myself and my ex while simultaneously wowing you with my outré indices of knowledge? I was wrong. Quintinshill wasn't yesterday morning, it was last night—yes, my friend, nearly 22 hours have passed since I last worked on this communiqué. Additionally, you should take note that I've availed myself of two French words in as many sentences, because the French are a people of heat and passion, and I'm navigating a narrow ledge in regards to my seething temper at the moment. A plight on which I will elaborate momentarily. But I digress—Quintinshill, last night, my ex** _ **still**_ **the singular cause of yesterday's flagrant, multiple, derailments. I won't bore you with the exhaustive details, but in the abridged edition, you'd find my ex barging in, thoroughly baked, and emptying her stomach on my favorite pair of sweats. Martinis don't look quite so sophisticated when they're making a return trip. Needless to say, she was bustled back to her glitterati-colonized hotel, while I spent another hour scrubbing olive juice and vodka from my hardwood floors. She left sometime this morning. No goodbyes, no apologies, no follow-up visit, she imparted nothing save a pithy text—"headed home"—and an implausible story. And I got to tell my kid that she'd taken off.** _ **Yet again**_ **.**

 **She took it like a champ, all sage understanding and grim maturity, but I'm coping a little less robustly. I'm furious, yes, but even more than that, I feel alone. A parental island. How does one handle situations like this? How do I minimize the impact my ex's childish capers and selfish caprices have on my kid's mental health? How do I move forward? What sort of boundaries do I set? And legal boundaries—do I look to impose even more? Further restrict my ex's access to our child? It's as though I'm racing up the ascending side of a steep hill—no knowledge of what lies beyond the zenith, and only a brief margin of time in which to decide on a course of action. Do I stop or forge ahead? My attorney says one thing, my mother another, and my instincts contradict both pieces of wise and experienced counsel. Add to that my lamentable inability to discern what's right without first acting—post facto, the way is clear, the right choice evident, but decision comes first for me and perception only follows.**

 **I'm sorry the case you're working has been such a source of anxiety, has weighed so heavily on you. You seem far more decisive than me, which I intend in the best way possible—you're bold and bright and brazen, relentlessly following your convictions, using them to carve out a career enacting justice and delivering hope. And if this case is wrought with indecision, if the pressure of it all seems overwhelming at times—and especially if it's unremitting—I hope you remember the clarity that has defined your life to date and the strength that's carried you this far. Most of all, I hope you get some much needed sleep because you sounded several shades past exhaustion, a little like a chain smoker at the tail end of a 12-hour factory shift. And I'm prone to worry. Take care of yourself, Katherine, and the rest will come in time.**

 **Yours,**

 **Alex**

 _Take care of yourself, you shouldn't be alone._

It was an odd position in which to find herself, on the receiving end of such kind emotional ministrations. She couldn't recount the last time someone had fretted over her this way, reminded her to prioritize self-care—that had died along with her mother. And submitting to his well-meaning attentions was an awkward adjustment. Not unappreciated, just unfamiliar. But he was right that she shouldn't be alone, shouldn't slog through her thoughts in isolation.

Early one morning, swapping words over an autopsy table, Lanie had told Kate how any case involving kids kept her up at night, that the anticipatory dread of the postmortem she'd have to perform encouraged drinking, wrecked her sleep. And if she shouldn't be alone, then neither should Lanie. Kate retrieved her phone and dialed up the ME, the ringtone chirruping dissonantly once in her ear before the other woman picked up.

"Hey, girl, a body drop?" She asked, sounding drained though not groggy.

"No," Kate returned quietly, "I—were you sleeping just now?"

Lanie's surprise was evident in her delayed response, a little beat that passed before she spoke. "I wasn't. Sleeping just wasn't—no. No, I wasn't. Why'd you ask?"

"Do you wanna come over? Sleep isn't a likely prospect for me either, and I have a bottle of red in my fridge that I really don't want to take on solo. And—and I don't think either of us is in any condition to weather this evening without a partner." _You shouldn't be alone._

Another pause, an inhalation. "Gimme ten minutes to pack a bag and I'll head your way."

* * *

"Wait, roll it back, he said he wanted to _meet?_ " Lanie—hair wrapped, face bare, wearing a ratty _Tulane_ tee—had wedged herself into the corner of the sofa, and was peering owlishly over the rim of her wineglass.

"Yeah, he said he didn't want personal discussions to be the only line we ever crossed. Said he wanted more," Kate divulged, and took a generous swallow of the merlot, which was uncommonly good. Chewy, full-bodied, a peppery finish. As the silence stretched, she glanced up, took in Lanie's look of stupefaction and snorted.

"Wow, okay. Should I be offended?"

"Honey, the Christians fared better with the lions than men fare with you. As a rule." The ME arched a sleek brow, regarded her complacently— _you know I'm right._

"Well, you're not wrong," Kate groused, grimacing in consternation. "But if there's anyone who invalidates my rules and preconceptions, it's Alex."

"You found an exception," The ME remarked, treating her to a dazzling, suggestive grin that had Kate rushing to amend her statement.

"A _platonic_ exception, Lane. The horses are here and the cart is all the way back at the precinct," she waved a hand behind her for emphasis, "and the very last thing I want to do is assign meaning where there is none, or anticipate an eventuality that's—you know, that's never gonna come to pass. And I don't know if that's even what I'd want. I mean, I've never met the guy—God _knows_ what his legal name is—and he has a kid and I've got issues and—"

"And yet," Lanie interjected, voice calm and dark eyes a steady, grounding force, "not only are you entertaining the thought of meeting a complete stranger, I'd lay steep odds you've revealed more about yourself to him than nearly anyone else with a pulse."

Her chest tightened, the indirect reference to her mother's death a sharp reminder as to why she so fiercely she guarded herself. She sighed, wetted her lips, bobbed her head in the affirmative. "There's still a lot he doesn't know, but—but like we've covered, he knows me. Hasn't even met me and he _knows_ me. And even with all of my sidestepping and the radio silence and really, terrifically cumbersome baggage, he still keeps writing, still keeps calling."

"You don't have to convince me. The boy's a class act—I've known it since you told me about him. And it's not anything he said or wrote or did either. It's the way your eyes warm and your cheeks flush when he's mentioned, the way your mouth tips up just a little. He makes you happy, and that's good enough for me."

Lanie smiled again, her full lips stained russet from the wine, and a wash of gratitude supplanted her wistful remembrances, her relational incertitude. God, she was a great friend—running over in the dead of night at what was quite literally a moment's notice to drink and chat and forget.

"He is a class act, huh?"

"He really is," Lanie affirmed, "and when you talk yourself outta meeting him, which is inevitable, I'll bully you right back in."

A laugh bubbled out of Kate and she sunk further into the sofa cushions, drawing a fraying quilt further up her chest. "And I know you're dreading that thought—bossing me around, proving your superiority. God, what a nightmare."

"Oh, please. If anyone's got the fuzzy end of the lollipop, it's me. You might have to put up with a little sass, but when all is said and done, not only do you have _me_ —which is a pretty sweet reward in and of itself—but you also get the guy."

"Lanie," she warned, smile slipping, "cart. Horses. Knock on wood. Something."

"You're not gonna jinx this, Kate." Lanie's eyes were resolute, no trace of doubt as she polished off the dregs of her wine.

"You really wanna tempt the wrath of the whatever from atop the high thing?"

The other woman shook her head slowly. "Kate. You're not gonna jinx this."

"And you know this how?" Lanie's was a bold claim, especially given Kate's track record—scads of first dates, a handful of seconds, unreturned phone calls, and an assortment of irate voicemails. If there was any excuse to dip out, she took it. Any opportunity to assign fault, rest assured she found it. No backwards glances, no second thoughts.

"Because," she murmured gently, eyes understanding, tender, "he isn't gonna let you."

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _I'm categorically the worst. And I wish I had a better explanation for my absence than "because life has been chaotic", but that's all I've got. Moreover, the few times I did have an hour or two to spare, my schedule and mind seemed at cross purposes (i.e., writer's block). Rest assured, however, I'm still here, I still value this story, and I have a definite plan for its timeline and conclusion_ — _it's my baby and I'd never allow it to remain incomplete._

 _And if I'm the worst, you all are indisputably the best! Every uplifting message and word of encouragement was so appreciated, and I value your thoughts and opinions more than I can say. All that said, how are we feeling about the imminent and long-awaited face-to-face? It may be a few chapters off, but I for one can't_ _to get there._

- _Feministly_


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13: Until We Meet

 _Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them._

 ** _Update: Refer to A/N regarding concerns over the upcoming installment—that's my bad, I'm a tease, I'm sorry, you live, you learn, you leave less cryptic comments._**

* * *

By sheer dint of anxious tenacity, he tripped up the steep incline, dodging the serrated teeth of cracked pavement slabs, skirting misbegotten piles of dog excrement, and inelegantly heaving in the soupy summer air. With the mercury flirting at 83 degrees before the sun had even crested over the high-rises, today promised to give hell a solid run for its money—not that he expected any less from this wonderful, terrible, greasy, patchwork city—and he was eager to conclude his run before the forecasted scorcher hit its zenith.

Maybe.

Running was a bulwark of insidious thought. Though _run_ was an admittedly generous descriptor, he considered ruefully, wrenching his thoughts away from the searing agony in his quads and hamstrings, the nipping pulse in his Achilles tendon, the creak of his ribs with every bellowing gasp. Why, why, _why_ people ran for pleasure—or how seasoned runners streamed fluently past, faces a mask of serenity, limned in a healthy glow of perspiration, the flesh of their sculpted calves miraculously immune to jiggling—not only confounded him, but also unfailingly pissed him off. Running was intended to render the misguided athlete miserable, tomato-faced, and wrung dry of every reserve—energy, hydration, and sentient thought. It was for exorcising invasive, persistent ideation; for exhaustion past the point of incessant brooding; for the exultation that resulted from outstripping self-imposed limitations; for pushing past that four-mile goal, gasping and dripping for another twenty minutes to prove god-knows-what.

But despite teetering on a knife's edge of nausea and fighting for an unimpeded breath and quivering from the strain of his exertions, it wasn't working.

 _I want us to meet_. God, he hated himself.

Unequivocally.

In what had been a stunning display of trust, she'd called him—neck-deep in a crisis, all candid vulnerability and fragility, in need of tacit understanding and soothing encouragement—and rather than reaffirming that fledgling reliance, he'd hit her with a zinger from deep left field. Hard and fast— _I want us to meet._ What an asshole.

Molars kissing molars, tension in his jaw stretching from mandible to clavicle, he blinked the prickle of sweat from his eyelashes, shook back a forelock of sopping hair, and pressed on toward the loft, the bulk of his run behind him. The worst of it, he reflected miserably, was her kindness, her sensitivity—the way she'd tidily swept his supplication to the side, placated him with a gentle _maybe,_ before adroitly segueing to safer conversational territory. At the time he'd been appeased, gratified even, until he'd reflected back on their exchange. And as with every remembrance of their discussion, a wash of emotions coursed through him, the chief of those being regret, closely tailed by disconcertion, and liberally interspersed with frustration, self-derision, and panic. Because he'd pushed too hard, too prematurely. Selfishly asked for things that could only— _would_ only—topple the delicate balance of this nameless, amorphous thing they had. At the worst possible moment.

And now? Now he was living with the fear that she would neatly, deftly extricate herself from his life with the same delicate efficacy evinced in her kind set-down. That she would retreat without giving him a chance to rescind his rather demanding request— _I was an ass, forget I even mentioned it_. That she would be gone, leaving nothing behind but the ghost of herself in a handful of letters. Already he'd begun crafting an apology—an elegant expression of his regret leading into a litany of explanations for his impulsive challenge flanked by humorous self-recrimination. But it all sounded hollow when he spoke the words aloud, the insincerity apparent even to his own ears, because when all was said and done, he _did_ want to meet her. So much it was almost a tangible thing, a flavor lingering on his tongue—thick, achingly bittersweet.

All he knew of her, all he had to draw on, was a crisp, velvety alto and a handful of narratives. And it wasn't enough. Not nearly. He wanted to witness the way her mouth wrapped around words as she volleyed a retort, the brilliant flash of her teeth as a laugh shook her, the curves of her face, the slant of her eyes, the slope of her nose, the way her hands would paint the air with gestures as she spoke. He wanted it all. Katherine entire.

It scared him shitless.

And if the notion terrified _him_ , god-knows how Kate would respond. Strictly speaking, he did know—it would trigger a retreat to rival the calamity that was Gallipoli—and the regret of loss, the irretrievable possibility of _more_ would haunt him doggedly, shade any subsequent relationships with the acrid tang of what might have been. Which he couldn't tolerate. Couldn't bear.

With a start, he drew up short, the rubber soles of his Adidas tearing noisily at the pavement as he broke his stride and blinked up at the loft, chest still heaving. He'd made good time. Astonishingly good time. Six miles in forty perspiration-laden minutes—the power of distraction and self-recrimination hard at work. And somehow, despite his grueling pace and the stunning amount of energy he'd expended, he still felt penitent, far from vindicated. Left wanting more, needing more, just this side of bereft.

God, he was a mess—internally, externally, an encyclopedic disaster.

Lifting a shoulder, he wearily smeared his forehead against the damp sleeve of his pullover, bobbed a nod of acknowledgement as he passed Eduardo, and gasped reflexively as he passed into the foyer's frigid interior. He stopped only to collect his mail before shuffling into the elevator, gait stiff, and pressed a feverish temple to one of the car's brushed stainless panels as it fluidly ascended, steadfastly ignoring the snarl of anxiety in his gut, the sting of remorse behind his eyes. On wooden legs, he entered the sun-splashed expanse of the loft and cursorily took in his surroundings, stiffly toed off his shoes before pressing on. The allure of a cool shower propelled him past the loft's threshold, drawing him through the tranquil interior of his home office—mail unceremoniously discarded on the shambolic surface of his desk—and into the ascetic landscape of his master bath. His sweatshirt slapped wetly against the tile as he disrobed, the rest of his sodden clothing contributing to the pile, and he clambered beneath the brisk spray, eager for the anesthetizing shock of the icy water. The way it would foist everything aside for just a moment—his lamentable interpersonal blunder, the looming gala function with Gina, the aftereffects of Meredith's recent New York sojourn, Derek's recent literary intractability—and give him the space to draw a full breath.

He was reveling in the mindlessness of the moment, reaching for an exorbitant bottle of Keihl's body wash, when he heard the whisper-soft snick of the bathroom door and cast his eyes upward in mute supplication. Because there was only one goddamn woman nosy enough to intrude on a man in the midst of a cold shower _._

"Richard, it's me," his mother's voice bounced sonorously off of the glossy subway tiles, all ebullience and bravado. "Alexis and I had the grandest time in D.C., at the National Museum of Art, and of course she _adored_ U Street and Georgetown, but she refused to tour the International Spy Museum—positively defied the notion of going—until you could be present as well, saying that you would find it unforgiveable, us excluding you from exhibitions devoted entirely to espionage and—"

"Mother," he halted her, one broad hand braced against the wall, striving to dampen the annoyance that bled through his tone, "can we table this until I'm, you know, not—well, not _exposed_?" Why this was even a necessary request utterly baffled him.

"Oh, darling," Martha replied, all breezy unflappability. "I don't know why you're bothered—I mean, after all, you ride police horses in the buff and hardly bat an eye. But, I—I'll just go get brunch started. We can continue our conversation over mimosas."

Jesus Christ.

Absolutely not.

He was already in the shittiest of moods, and he knew his mother—she would probe and poke and pester until he relented and growlingly, tartly, reluctantly revealed the basis of his sulk, and then conversation would turn to the detective of his affections, and discussing Kate Beckett meant revealing the humiliatingly comprehensive scope of his entanglement. Which he was far from prepared to do, considering he hadn't begun to process the breadth and depth of whatever the hell this even was. Hadn't had the grit and temerity to really explore his inmost thoughts regarding her, regarding them, regarding what he wanted. And yet, for all his irritation, his internal countermanding, his indignation at literally being caught with his pants down, all that issued from him was a weak, "I ate like an hour ago, mother—"

"Well, that's all fine and well, but Alexis is starving, and I promised her something rich and Belgian and smothered in crème fraiche. Is your waffle iron still to the right of the sink? Never mind, I'll find it and dust it off and polish off the rest of the berries in the fridge before they develop a layer of fur. And _really_ , why you purchase so much fruit for only the two of you—it's outrageous!"

And because he'd just run six miles and had no faculties earmarked for this washout of a morning, he resignedly hummed his assent, vigorously began soaping himself down, and mentally prepared for the meal that stretched bleakly before him—one that necessitated the dismantling of smoke detectors, a forbearance of _stroopwafel-_ like Belgians, and a discussion with all the appeal of a lidocaine-less root canal.

* * *

"How's the novel coming, darling?" Martha inquired, spooning raspberries over a remarkably lopsided waffle, ignoring the pinched frown Alexis' directed at her, the way those bright eyes darted to Rick before rebounding to her plate. "You have that Samuel Taylor Coleridge look about you."

Oh, his kid knew him, could read his moods in the space of a sigh, knew that there was no approach _less_ conducive to maintaining the precarious calm that had settled over the table.

"What, slack-jawed and bleary-eyed from opioid abuse?" He huffed, aiming for humor.

And hitting discouragingly wide of the mark, apparently.

"Uninspired," she clarified dryly, spearing a plump strawberry. "He was the progenitor of writer's block you know?"

"I'm well aware, thank you," he rejoined acerbically, selected a defenseless waffle from the pile, and ripped away the better half of it with his teeth. Scapegoating pastries to maintain his calm felt like a new low. "But I don't have writer's block, kind as you were to suggest otherwise. I'm simply at—you know, at a sort of crossroads with—with the—with Derek."

Martha nodded sagely, all clear-eyed innocence and altruistic concern—the façade of a master snoop. "Yes, that detective has recently been something of a nuisance, it seems. However, there's another detective entirely who, if I'm correct, is the reason you're wearing that dejected, petulant, rather unattractive scowl."

 _What the hell._

With a strangled cough, he convulsively swallowed his bite of waffle, the crusted edges raking the lining of his throat. "What—who are you talking about?" He demanded roughly, striving to assume a dumb, clueless expression.

"What detective?" Alexis enjoined, eyes as wide and glittering and expectant as his mother's, little mouth bowing in a canny smile. Sighing, he reached over and brushed a dollop of whipped cream from beneath her upper lip, biting back an unbidden smile as she scrunched her nose, her constellation of freckles coalescing tightly before scattering across the bridge again—a tiny supernova. "Dad," her tone was half reproach, half soft-soap, " _what_ detective?"

"She really is quite lovely, Richard," Martha murmured, and he swiveled his head, so abruptly he felt an answering burn in his trapezius, his body following on a tight pivot to face her. The forthright sentiment coursed hotly through him, a lurid shock that flushed his neck and ears, siphoned the air from his lungs.

 _What?_

"What did you say?"

"She's lovely. Your detective—Katherine," Martha continued her meal unabashedly, fixing him with a knowing look. "I may be as desiccated as a craisin—your words, not mine—with a sense of vapid flamboyancy to rival Elton John's—another one of your flattering platitudes, darling—but my brain is still in peak condition, and the internet is a tool well-nigh as mighty as the sword. Or the pen, as it were."

Clearly he needed to nix the barbed asides, because she was salvaging them as buckshot—more penetrating and effective than his initial volleys. She was a goddamn strategist, the Patton of well-meaning manipulations.

"You looked her up," each word emerged sluggishly, disbelief protracting his syllables.

"You haven't?" This time she did freeze, waffle-laden fork hovering halfway to her mouth, regarding him bemusedly. "Why ever not?"

 _Yeah, why not, Rick?_

"I didn't want to wreck the mystery," he informed her through stiff lips, the excuse weak to even his own ears.

"Ah, yes. The mystery. Of course. But, cutting to the heart of it all, is it patience or fear that's staying your hand?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" He shot back, parrying her inquiry, question for question.

"Only that your track record regarding romantic relationships is less than stellar," her eyes flickered away from him then, bangled wrists chiming as she lifted a crystal flute brimming with orange juice and champagne far too expensive for an impromptu brunch.

 _Well, damn_.

That was a low blow, the judgment sanctimonious given her history, and it rankled, crept under his skin. But, annoyance aside—regarding it through an objective lens—she wasn't wrong. Not entirely.

Brushing the thought aside, he arranged his features into a mask of indifference, eyes shuttered. "And your own sordid, varied past, mother?"

"Doesn't apply to our discussion," she dismissed coolly, "don't sidestep the issue, and don't insult me just to derail the conversation, Richard." A taut beat passed, punctuated by the rasp of wooden chair legs against the floorboards as Alexis shifted in her seat, eyes wide, mouth a taut hyphen, too perceptive, too emotionally attuned for her own damn good. And the last thing she needed was more conflict coloring her life. Looking askance at his mother, he tipped his head toward his daughter, a subtle reminder of the potential ramifications of a falling out, another familial fracture.

"Much as I'm _loving_ the bent of this conversation," he ground out, straining to temper his expression, "how's about we put this little parley on ice?"

And to her credit—and his relief—she understood. Adjusted accordingly. Comprehension and forbearance softening the lines that bracketed her mouth, pleating the corners of her eyes, and Martha continued then, voice gentle, "It isn't—I'm not saying this to needle or antagonize you, I hope you realize, and I know—I _know_ you and I are cut from the same disreputable cloth. Apple falling within reach of the proverbial tree, sins of the father and all that—or mother, rather. So there's absolutely no judgment from this corner. But you and commitment? Water and oil could boast more compatibility."

"You think I don't know that?"

"I—I think you've been hedging, darling. Every response a question, deflecting, on the defensive. Per usual."

"Well, what do you want me to say?" He demanded lowly, fork clattering sharply against his plate, "that I know I'm an undisputed wreck? That I'm afraid if I start something I'll foul it up, _per usual._ That I can't make heads or tails of this _thing_ between she and I because I wouldn't know a healthy relationship if it was standing in front of me wearing a garish neon sign and a halo? Cause that's what's been running—wind-sprinting—through my mind since about the second letter I posted. I'm not _unaware_ ," he ground out, channeling his fingers roughly through damp hair, "I'm—I'm..." He trailed off, words bunching in his throat.

"Afraid," Martha supplied, sweeping him with an assessing gaze, "you're afraid."

She wasn't pulling any punches today. Hard verbal emotional jabs steeped in maternal concern. And it wasn't as though her motives were specious, wasn't as though she intended to purposely wound him, but her sudden forthrightness kind of shocked the hell out of him. As a family unit, they were evasive, performing hairpin pirouettes around the grittier issues, historically speaking. Allowed grievances and secrets to suppurate and fester and devolve into bitter resentments and coy passive aggression. For whatever reason, whatever motive, though, she'd dropped prevaricating to accommodate for some good old-fashioned conflict. And for the record, he wasn't precisely a fan.

"In summation, yeah. I suppose that's the way of it. Generally speaking," he muttered, risking a glance at Alexis who blinked owlishly at him, mouth twitching up in a placating smile.

What a lovely fucking morning. The brunch of dreams. Served hot and carb heavy in Guantanamo Bay.

"It's the fear that makes it real, you know," Martha opined sagely, knowingly, startling him from his acidic musings.

"Makes what real?"

"I think you know, darling."

And he did know, he realized with a disquieting pang in his chest, a sick lurch in his gut. Which was absurd and hasty and idealized and ludicrous. He knew that, too. But for all his acknowledgments, it was utterly involuntary. Inevitable, maybe—that he would plummet effortlessly, inadvertently into the murky depths of a specter. An ink-and-paper woman that encompassed all of the mystery, all of the allure, all of the profundity for which he longed and reconciled himself to never finding.

And yes, there was that part of him—a sublimated, inscrutable part of him with unknown dimensions—that grudgingly, mutely, compulsively four-letter-worded her. A part of him he crushed in a stranglehold, choked into submission.

"Am I wrong?" He jerked his head to the left, the fading burn in his neck flaring anew. It was a tacit admission, all he would yield, and he met her scrutiny with a composure he didn't feel, that belied the pulse jackhammering in his neck, his ears. No, she wasn't wrong. And it petrified him. "And what do you plan to do about it?" She continued, pulling a knee-jerk grimace from him.

"I don't—I don't know. Meet her, talk to her, charm her. Win her over with my rugged good looks and significant financial cushion," he quipped wryly, but Martha only regarded him placidly, expectantly, and he fought the urge to shift nervously in his seat. Like Alexis just moments prior. Like he was thirteen all over again—knuckles bloodied and swollen and raw, the surge and pulse of battle still an ugly glint in his eyes, fighting the urge to wilt beneath the weight of her compassionate dismay. After a beat, he sighed wearily, admitted quietly, "I don't know. She's not ready to hear it—hasn't even agreed to _meet_ with me, so anything involving _feelings_ bodes terribly ill—and in truth, I'm—I'm not ready to say anything. Wouldn't know what to say even if I wanted to, you know, lay my figurative heart at her—in all likelihood perfect—feet. So, I guess—I just sit on this, just wait. Let things unfold naturally, gradually."

"Mm," Martha hummed, eyes on her hands, and she waited a beat before responding slowly, "I think restraint is sensible. But I also think hesitating could mean—that this could crumble into something too passive. Because it looks a little like sitting on your hands rather than waiting patiently. And that can only end poorly for you both."

And did it really matter what fork in the road he followed, which divergence he selected? Perhaps. But not necessarily. The outcome of this rare and odd and lovely little experiment wasn't wholly dependent on his decisions, his desires. If it hinged on anything, on anyone, it was her. Kate, the unknown variable—a Schrödinger's cat of confundity and clarity, everything hanging, hanging in the balance as he waited for her to catch up to where he waited, steady, and wanting and yes, four-letter-wording her.

So yeah, he could hold an ace-high straight flush and play his hand flawlessly, lay his every resource, each stock and bond and goddamn decimal point on the line, and she could summarily decide poker wasn't her game after all. Opt for chess or horseshoes or hell, why not pugilism? Call it a day— _it's just not a good time for me, Alex_ —and leave him alone, hands full of worthless, lithographed vinyl and a string of _maybes, might-have-beens,_ _if-onlys_. It would be that quick, that final. That brutal.

"Well, what do I do, hm?" He demanded, pushing back his plate, appetite a spineless deserter in the wake of his revelations and Martha's hard-hitting truths.

"Much as I'd like to solve this for you, darling," her voice was spun cotton, her eyes even softer, and he felt the vice-like press of his tension and near anger loosen thread by thread. Thirteen all fucking over again. "I can't."

God, he needed a drink. Something a hell of a lot stronger than Veuve Clicquot and Tropicana.

"Then the whole third degree thing was—"

"To spark a much needed ah-ha moment," she informed him tolerantly, and then sighed at his shuttered expression. "You haven't talked about this with anyone, have you? Not _really_. Aside from the one off with me. Maybe you mentioned it in passing but you haven't taken the time to parse it out with a trusted confidante." Bewilderedly, he met her knowing gaze, because how the hell she'd determined that—really, how she'd intuited _all_ of the various and sundry and really, wholly unappreciated insights into his being this morning—escaped him.

"I know you, Richard," she continued, eyes a little hazy and distant, trained on a patch of wall or window over his shoulder, "and you need to talk about it with someone, be it me or a friend or a stranger on the subway, but _talk._ And figure this out. And I know, I _know_ , I said I couldn't tell you what to do, and I can't. Won't," she snapped back then, intent and focused, canting towards him with a gravity and emotional forcefulness that testified to her mettle as a performer, vindicated every award and accolade she'd garnered, and he had the discomfiting sensation that she could discern each insecurity and fear and doubt that simmered beneath his skin.

"You write fictional lives, imagined heroes into being, attribute them with bravery and tenacity and the resolve to pursue what they want, who they want to the ends of the earth if need be. And you—you may be flesh and blood and not ink and paper, Richard, but you're a living, breathing protagonist, and you decide your own story, your own path, even your own denouement. If you sit idly by and allow something other than courage to govern you, you'll never forgive yourself, you know? And if you were to—quite literally—steal a page from one of your own acclaimed books, you wouldn't hesitate. You'd take your own advice."

She leaned more deeply across the table, one hand reaching out, then resting it against his own splayed fingers before smiling, succinctly consolidating the overarching character themes of David McAllister, Leroy Fine, Derek Storm, and even those of his lesser loved and two-dimensional leads.

"Pull the trigger, bite the bullet, get the girl."

* * *

Following her soliloquy, which he wished he could've captured, scrawled down, used in some future work because it was raw and poignant and compelling—though the day he divulged that thought to his mother was the day Satan built an igloo—silence lapsed. Martha turned back to her congealing waffle, tucking back in doggedly, and Alexis picked at the remains on her own plate, the flame blue of her focus visible in his peripherals. That right there was a conversation he was almost certainly going to suffer through. As if his mother wasn't enough. Nor the tireless churning of his own musings. Lovely. Tamping down a sigh, he pressed up from the table and quietly began collecting plates and ceramic dishes, assiduously giving both redheads a wide berth before escaping to the relative peace of his kitchen, and from there, to the absolute peace of his study. Which is where he sequestered himself reclusively, scrawling thoughts on Derek, the current plot, potential dialogue in his beaten Moleskine while Martha and Alexis talked and bustled in the kitchen.

His focus was intent, unremitting—the temporary absolution from outside thought anchoring him to the task—for some indeterminate stretch of time until the conspicuous absence of sound stirred him from his reflections, settling around him almost palpably, and he pulled himself away from the chicken scratch and half-assed flow charts on the tissue-thin paper bent over his knee, and frowned. Silence was a state of being antithetical to Martha Rodgers. And, for that matter, Alexis Castle. Glancing up, he twitched, blinked once, bemused to find his daughter leaning against the doorframe, all cool contemplation. Burying a reflexive smirk at the visual—her slender arms folded imperiously, one cinnamon eyebrow hooked upward, his mother's doppelgänger in miniature—he instead curved his mouth into a weary smile. Oh, yeah, he knew that look. Had been on the receiving end of it for longer than he'd been capable of holding rational conversation. And it was telling him he was in for a pint-sized if not thematically substantial earful.

"What detective, dad?"

Straight for the jugular. Impressive. Subtle she was not, though in tenacity she could rival a kennel of English bulldogs, and he looked on admiringly as her bare feet tapped determinedly toward an armchair, the delicate edge of her chin thrust obstinately into the air. _Answers_ , the tilt said. She expected them.

 _Where to even start?_

He deliberated, internally shuffling through his options while Alexis inelegantly clambered onto the overstuffed leather cushions, adjusted the bunched fabric of her top, folded her legs into lotus position, flicked the silken panel of her ponytail behind her shoulder, and turned expectant eyes on him.

Time up.

Rick took a preparatory breath. "Do you remember when I mentioned a friend of mine to you? One whose feelings I'd hurt?" At her shallow bob of concession, he continued. "Well, I did just like you suggested. And smart cookie that you are, your advice did the trick. One heartfelt apology later and, lo and behold, we were friends again."

"She forgave you," she murmured gravely, disregarding his attempts at levity, and stanchioned spindly elbows against scabby knees, used twin fists to prop the stubborn jut of her chin.

"Yeah," he returned, forced playfulness draining away, leaving behind a quiet pensiveness. Eyes coming to rest on the bundle of her letters, the sheath secured with a length of green hair ribbon Alexis had abandoned in his master suite a few weeks back, he picked up the thread of his retelling. "She gave me a second chance, which is a big deal for her. Trusting people, letting them in—or, you know, letting them see what and how much she feels, is—it's a big deal. A lot of bad things have happened to her and a lot of people have let her down, and she thinks the only person she can trust in and depend on is herself. But we're getting along really well. Or—well, at least, I feel like we get along. And the more we've talked and the better I know her, the more I want to _meet_ her. Because up until now, we've—well, we've only written letters or spoken over the phone. You can be friends without spending time together in person. Many people have friends they've never met face-to-face, I understand that. And if that's how she wants things to stay, I—I'll respect her wishes," he sighed, glanced over at Alexis' impassive expression, let a smile flicker over his face, "but I wish—I want to meet her."

"Because you like her," she clarified, tilting her head to one side.

Eight going on eighteen, this kid. "I do like her," he conceded softly, "very much."

Alexis' mouth fluttered open, snapped closed, the pattern repeating itself as she peered into his face curiously. "So," she finally managed, thoughts snagging on a word, "do you—I mean, do you _like_ her like her, or just like her? Like, just a friend."

"Oh," he leaned back at her question, disconcertment furrowing the expanse of his forehead.

 _It was a foregone conclusion the moment you read that inscription, Rick._

"I mean—I _really_ like her. And I think if we got the chance to meet—have coffee or lunch or sit on a park bench and just talk—I would have a better idea, you know. Of whether I like her as a friend or as—you know, as _more_ than a friend."

 _Liar._

From the way she scrutinized him, narrowed her eyes, he got the sense she'd detected the false buoyancy in his voice, the too pragmatic, anomalously phlegmatic way he'd breezed through his rationalizations. And he expected her to call him on his shit, but instead, she hitched her shoulders in a shrug. "Okay," Alexis drawled, attention still leveled on him, "I guess that makes sense."

He struggled to keep his expression placid, tethered his surprise. "It does?"

"Sure," she nodded sagely, looking for all the world like some Raja yogi in pursuit of _Samadhi_ —lotus legs, unflappable expression, narrow jaw still propped on fists. "You don't wanna _really_ like her until you know if she likes you back."

 _Damn_. Well, she wasn't wrong.

"That's—yeah, you're—you're right. I wanna wait and see where she's at with all of…this," his gestured to himself, then drifted abstractedly, hand tracing the air between his body and Alexis', "before I think about _liking_ liking her. You know?"

"What's her name again?" She murmured, the action of speech against her bolstered jaw cantilevering her head strangely, an enigmatic wobble.

"Kate," he returned easily, smiled at her, some of his tension leaving him when she smiled back.

"Pretty," she commented inanely, paused for a restorative beat, then resumed her inquisition. "Why do you like her?" As if there was a straightforward response to that question. As if he had the capacity or insight to even articulate his thoughts. And yes, he was a writer, he knew. Recognized that the occupation demanded a certain fluency with feelings and intentions and motives, and the irony of his deep-rooted emotional constipation wasn't from lost on him. But far be it from him to disillusion the first flushes of romance he saw in Alexis' saccharine smile, in the lambency of her eyes. She wanted to live vicariously, so he folded his hands, sunk further into the well-worn recesses of his desk chair.

"That's a loaded question. Why do we, any of us, like anyone? We can list a lot of personality traits, but the reality is more goes into it than that."

"Like what?" She demanded.

"The circumstances under which you meet—like, are you in a place in your life where you _want_ more friends? At that specific moment in the day, do you even feel like talking? And when you do speak to one another, do you happen to say the right thing at the right moment?" Rick wondered about that. Often. If he'd sent the letter another day, written different words, what would have transpired? "There are second chances, of course, but you only have seven seconds—according to experts on the matter—to make your first impression. And once that window of time has passed, you're kind of stuck with their perception, or their thoughts, about you."

"But why do you _like_ her?" He heard the accusation behind her pointed question— _stop prevaricating_.

 _Because she makes me feel alive_ , was the concise response, the authentic one. But he didn't think that would satisfy Alexis' push for answers.

"Well," he murmured softly, features shifting, melting into something gentle, pensive. "She's very brave, and very strong. I like that about her. I don't know all of the things that have happened to her, don't know all of the battles she's had to fight, but I do know people that loved her died, people that were supposed to take care of her didn't, and she's been all on her own for a while. Even with all of that, though—all of that pain and all of that loneliness—she chose to work a job that allows her to help others. Even though no one was helping her. So, she's selfless, too."

"And good," Alexis chimed in, "she's a good person."

"Yeah, she is," his voice was warm, gaze tender, "without a doubt. And her job doesn't just require her to help people, it requires her to risk her life sometimes. She's a police officer," he simplified, relishing the way her vibrant eyes flared in admiration, "and yes, she's brave because of everything she survived, but also because her job is dangerous and every day she decides to get out of bed and protect you, me, perfect strangers, and even bad or evil people. That's pretty courageous," he took a collective pause, smirked at Alexis' marked engrossment, cleared his throat, continued, "She likes books and so do I—of course, I write them, read them," his eyes flickered to the heavy-laden shelves demarcating the boundaries of his study, Alexis' gaze quick to follow, "and I appreciate someone who can discuss literature with me. Who likes big words and proper grammar—"

"There, their, they're." The dimpled smile she flashed—unabashedly spotlighting his central pet peeve—pulled a laugh from him.

"Exactly," he agreed warmly, face wreathed in amusement. If there'd ever been any doubts she was his, that quip was concrete proof. " _And_ who values all of the things that books can teach us. Um," he raised a hand to his face, pressed and swept a broad palm over his brow, cheeks, nose, chin, before resolving what to say. "I like that she's clever. She's—yeah, she's really funny. She has a great sense of humor, is incredibly witty—you know, thinks fast, teases me, is unusually sarcastic, much like another young lady of my acquaintance," he pinned Alexis with a faux glower and was rewarded with a smiling-eyed scowl, "and that's—well, it's fun. Getting to banter and joke with her.

"Let's see, what else? I like that she cares so much. About me, her dad, her friends and coworkers, the people she swore to protect. And I like that she's forgiving. I really messed up with her, hurting her feelings—" _lying_ , his self-conscious interjected maliciously, "—but she managed to let it go, and kept talking to me even though I knew I'd upset her."

Alexis nodded once in acknowledgement and then shifted her eyes to peer out the window. White shafts of piping summer sunlight streamed luridly through the panes, harshly irradiating her piquant face, exchanging the cornflower irises for something closer to transparency. It was an unsettling effect, broken when she tipped her face down and out of the buttery glow to toy with a hank of her hair, fingers exploring the bristled ends of a copper strand. "You like a lot of good things about her," she remarked slowly, and then raised her head, fixed him with a wondering look, "but do you like any of the things that _aren't_ good?"

He blinked at the question, taken aback. "I don't—you're gonna have to explain what you mean."

"I mean, like," a little huff forced its way out of her and she flicked a hand up in exasperation, grimacing. It was the same expression she'd worn as an infant when learning to talk, all cherubic perturbation as the words she so clearly strove to utter remained latent, emerging instead as senseless chattering. "It's really easy to like all of the—like, you know, all the good things about a person. The happy things. How nice they are, the way they treat their friends when they're around you, the jokes they make and their favorite books and movies and stuff. That's the easy part. But," she slowed, regarded him solemnly, "what about the things that are really hard to love? Their bad habits? The worst thing they ever said or did? What about the things she's done that hurt your feelings? Grams said that's when you know how you really feel about someone—if you accept the bad the same way you accept the good."

She blinked slowly, once, twice, a carrot-top Yoda perched crisscross applesauce on his chair, bird-bone frame dwarfed by the bulky dimensions of scuffed cocoa leather cushions. Since when had his kid blossomed into a self-help guru? And how the hell had he gone this long embracing his comfy little falsehood? He'd convinced himself he could defer his feelings until he talked to Kate, until they collaboratively sussed out this offbeat little dalliance, took each other's mettle, had that inevitable, unvarnished conversation about labels and emotions and significance and _them_. Turns out the assumed back-burner was ratcheted to _high,_ boiling point an inevitability _,_ methane blue flames licking the air, and all of the self-served relational moderators he'd swallowed were absolute bullshit.

Because you couldn't earmark feelings, couldn't ice them for later or _in-the-instance-of_ or _maybe-if_. Feelings were absolute, ungovernable and dark and compulsive, and he released a stale breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, sudden comprehension osmosing the moisture from his mouth and throat, wrenching his stomach queasily downward.

Deciding whether or not he four-letter-worded Kate was suddenly extraneous.

And really, hadn't it always been a foregone conclusion?

He already did.

It was _for the way you look at me_ and _made for you and me,_ that Nat King Cole refrain.

It was Corinthians I— _never failing, but the greatest of these, without it I am nothing_ —and sonnet 116— _does not alter when it alteration finds, or bend with the remover to remove, an ever fixed mark, looks on tempests and never shake_.

It was 'til death us do part, in sickness and health and all the mundane in-betweens.

It was a quiet certainty that nestled in the notch between his ribs, a fixedness acquired with every letter, every phone conversation.

It was the surge of heat when she murmured his name, the near reverence he fostered for her strength in the face of adversity, the paradoxical satisfied discontentment he felt at the conclusion of every call, the wistful longing for _goodbye_ to one day be _goodnight_.

It was that elusive _thing_ he'd wanted, striven to unearth in Meredith and a string of other women rendered nameless, faceless, by a whiskey-warm alto shrouded in anonymity.

It was something that might be nothing, but could be everything, could be his _as long as we both shall live_ , his always.

He swallowed, tongue clinging to the desiccated surface of his palate, blood surging sibilantly in his ears.

 _Shit._

He loved her.

* * *

Left reeling, bemused in the wake of his epiphany, Rick passed the next few days in a sort of stupor, rendered uncharacteristically taciturn as he sorted, categorized, contemplated, agonized, grateful that Alexis was preoccupied with a sleep away birthday party followed by a day spent with his conniving though openhanded mother, caroming from store to store in search of back-to-school clothing and accessories.

Which gave him ample time to stew, to write with immersive, tenacious energy fueled by demitasses of espresso courtesy of his _La Marazocco_ and a series of highballs glowing amber, the oaky dram of Glenlivet 33 closer to four fingers than two. And when he wasn't writing, he was running, pushing himself to the threshold of stomach turning muscle failure, or cleaning the loft obsessively—wiping down baseboards, dusting air vents, scrubbing grout with an erstwhile toothbrush, recaulking bathtubs, decalcifying shower heads. And doing his damnedest—really and truly and vainly _trying—_ to refrain from missing, thinking of, wanting, _fearing_ Kate.

It unnerved him, the power she unconsciously held, that she unknowingly cradled the sum of all his hopes in the votive of her hand, and he flinched from it. Hating it. Loving it. Feeling acutely, exhaustively vulnerable in ways he couldn't combat, couldn't circumvent.

Following the Machiavellian execution of Martha's interrogative brunch—or as he had snidely christened it, his brush with culinary waterboarding—she'd maintained her distance, a thoughtful if not belated gesture that he'd appreciate if he wasn't so fucking rankled by her prying questions and wide-eyed, well-meaning advice. Though, if he allowed it, or grew weary of forcibly tuning it out, the truth in his mother's words penetrated the haze of his self-pity and ire and trepidation like the sun burning through a shroud of fog.

God, his similes had all the hallmarks of the ramblings of a preteen girl.

And it pissed him off.

Because he was better than that. He was a literary genius, a veritable Hawking with metaphors and imagery and character development so nuanced they offered college courses on his novels. Well, the newer ones, at any rate. He was almost positive they used his seminal works as an example of what _not_ to do, and he felt surprisingly indifferent at the thought of creative writing profs creating PowerPoints featuring him as a cautionary paradigm. Because really? Campy fledgling novels and Alex-Mac-cum-slutty-prom-queen heroine aside, no one was laughing now. At least, no one with any inkling of the staggering row of place values stretching across his bank statement.

And he was trying to harness his literary savant, but despite his best whiskey-infused efforts, his writing was suffering—Derek had turned into such a fucking _pansy_. Pining after an unobtainable, stunning Rubik's cube of a woman he'd introduced in chapter three. But then so had his creator, he conceded dryly.

 _Such a lovestruck pansy, Rick._

Too, his thighs felt like the water balloons Alexis filled and stockpiled in a spacious Igloo cooler each summer in the Hamptons—precariously tight, retaining excessive amounts of water, and one misplaced hangnail away from detonation. And what's more, he was running low on Glenlivet and strawberry Pop-tarts, which meant he'd be forced within the next few hours to venture from the immaculate and unnervingly hushed interior of the loft.

And he needed to call her.

He knew.

Rip the Bandaid—involuntary eye-watering, arm hair and all, no tender gestures.

And let her set the tempo. If he could restrain himself from barreling through the conversation with a one-sided end goal in mind—because yeah, he wanted to _meet_ her more than he'd wanted to _marry_ Meredith, which made him pathetic and probably an asshole _sans pareil_ , but there it was.

He wanted to meet her more than he'd wanted his first publishing deal, wanted to know her in a way that made his throat ache, his thoughts tangle, and he pondered the _when where how_. At what point had it all narrowed down to her? At what point had he fallen—plummeted—for her, like the curve of the earth had constricted, narrowed, the pull of gravity stronger, harsher and the ground beneath him further than he'd recalled. And if he was swan diving into a fucking void, she was securely tethered to bedrock—with the bedrock being her fearful hesitation due to her shadowed and inscrutable past, yeah, again with the shitty metaphors, he knew—cautiously earthbound while he gleefully tumbled through time and space.

Probably to figuratively, emotionally pancake himself a few feet from her perfect, cagey self.

So now he was gridlocked.

Nearly a week since he'd allowed himself to entertain the thought of calling Kate. Thoughts knuckling down on her—on their impending conversation, on how much he missed the familiar rise and fall of her voice, how much he loathed it.

Everything in him was at cross purposes.

The washed up romantic in him indelibly drawn to the promise of unconventional, storybook-worthy, starry-eyed passion implausibly culminating in lock, stock, and barrel love.

And then the jaded pleasure seeker, all smooth words and flat-eyed smiles to lacquer and seal in his emotions, reeling in pliant, feminine bodies using flashy cars and designer suits and his very, _very_ skilled hands as lures, hooking them adroitly, magnetically, before executing a crisp, insouciant catch-and-release.

So this was his Robert Frost, _two-roads-yellow-woods_ moment.

He'd made himself divergent for her. He was what he had been and what he longed to be. He was Alex and Rick Castle. Her principled, gentle, transparent pen pal in one reality, her silver-tongued, opulent seducer in its parallel. This thing with her, it was the line—in the sand, the demarcation you laid it all on, that stripe you crossed. It was a wild speculation, a literal coin toss. And he couldn't predict which way the scales would tip, what the roll of the dice would yield.

But after more than a week without hearing her voice, and his mother's cross-examination and his daughter's abecedarian counsel and one too many tumblers of the hard stuff, he picked up the phone—proverbial bullet clenched between his teeth, stress fractures in his molars, strain in his jaw, and Jesus _Christ_ , why was this suddenly so difficult? Such a little word and such perilous, insurgent, transformative implications.

Four innocuous, undeclared letters and his heart was punishing his ribs, the hollow surge filling his ear canals, the dry crater of his mouth, the covert fluid-filled space girding his optic nerves, the rounded cusps of his fingers and toes, and he had to bear down on the phone, press his head against the earpiece just to hear the chirrup of the ring back tone because his pulse was _just that loud_ , because he was emotionally stunted and terrified of the scope of something that was nothing more than an ephemerous theory. To him. And if he had to guess, she was likely ignorant to it all, innocently blind. Lopsided pining, unrequited asymmetry.

 _Oh, there it is._

His spine ossified, a nervous, unyielding lineament as the chirruping ceased and a soft snick sounded and then there _she_ was.

"Hey," she greeted, and there was the subtlest thread of wariness in her voice. He wanted to soothe it, he wanted to provoke it. Awaken the same faltering uncertainty in her that rioted through him. "I—uh, it's been a while," she informed him factually, and he grimaced. Now guilt was uncertainty's shadowy bedfellow.

 _Excellent._

"Hey back," he returned, aiming for casual and touching down on strained nonchalance. Fighting back a sigh, he took a less flippant tack and continued. "You're right. It's been a while. Longer than—it's been too long. And I'm sorry I haven't called before now. I—I should have."

Not the raw truth she deserved or he wanted to speak, but it was substance, authenticity. An admission of guilt. He waited as the silence stretched elastically, expectantly, and shifted against the couch cushions, disinterred an abridged hardback of _White Fang_ from his lumbar region, and allowed his fingers to drum out a nervous tattoo on the glossy cover, an amateurish wolf frozen mid-howl and pressed beneath his clammy palm.

"Is everything okay, Alex?"

 _Damn._

That her first thought was for him, to confirm that he was well, was safe—and to be fair, the woman had so much heart and compassion she'd probably do the same for a knife-wielding transient in the tunnels—and not for the uncertainty and lingering traces of disappointment he heard at the periphery of her sentences. "I mean," she continued, "I'm sure you were busy. Work, your kid, life."

Hesitating a beat too long, he murmured his assent, decided on redacted honesty. "You're right that I've been somewhat…preoccupied," he allowed, then stopped abruptly before saying something he'd inevitably regret.

"Preoccupied," she repeated flatly, no question in the word, and a frown pulled at his mouth, notched the space between his brows.

"Yeah," he admitted slowly, unable to pinpoint the thread of emotion running through her response, though he knew for a fact it wasn't equanimity or contemplation or even dejection. She seemed to be waiting for elaboration, for more than his murky run-around, so he doubled the tempo of his drumming, let his foot take up the same pace against the floorboards, and summoned the scattered odds and ends of his resolve. "And if I'm speaking honestly, I wasn't sure if a call from me would be a welcome thing. After—well, you know. After our last conversation."

There was silence on the line, then the punctuation of a puff of breath. "I don't—what are you talking about, Alex?"

 _Was she serious?_

His fingers stilled, a jolt of bewilderment drawing his eyebrows toward his hairline. "I, uh—I was pushy and insensitive. And I really—I shouldn't have said—asked—what I did. Of you."

 _Christ_ , he hated this. His newfound awareness of what he felt for her had drained him of his velvety words and disarming appeal. Rendered him tongue-tied and very, _very_ aware of his myriad shortcomings.

Another collective pause tightened his stomach, hampered his breathing. "So, you're—you changed your mind, then. You don't want to meet." The faulty conclusion—though reflecting on his fumblingly vague apology, he could see why she'd arrived at it—came out detached, cool, and he scrambled to elucidate. To smooth over the sense of betrayal that threatened to leak through her calm.

He _knew_ her.

"If you think I don't wanna meet you, you haven't been paying attention," the pitch of his voice dropped to a low husk, all grave sincerity, "but the timing—I regret that, Kate."

"I don't."

This woman, though, unbalancing him with each sentence. Entirely unpredictable. Because of all the things she could have said, he would _never_ have anticipated that. Her admission— _I don't_ —was vulnerability personified. _Really?_

"Are you—really?" And of all the things _he_ could've said—he succumbed to a spectacular eye-roll and allowed his head to loll back, swallowing an expletive when it connected painfully with the sofa's back slat.

"I'd had a—" the line sizzled as she took a long draw of air, " _very_ long, very _miserable_ day, and it was—it helped." She'd startled him for the second time in as many responses and he released a wavering sigh. Realized he'd banked on her running, dissociating, when in point of fact, he'd been the only one to bow out—preempting her assumed desertion.

His mother had been right on the goddamn money.

"Though you're right about the timing," she told him, and he batted away the surge of disappointment that accompanied her words. "And it's not because I don't want to meet, and not because I'm stalling or—or afraid. But I'm in the thick of a case. A bad one. It's…messy. It's left _me_ messy. I'm riding on adrenaline and caffeine and rage right now, and I just—I don't have the resources," she trailed off, sounding small and brittle and weary, and he wanted to cup her face in his hands, murmur reassurances and wishful promises against her hair, and then wondered at the probability of that ever coming to pass.

Girl like that, guy like him? The hope was a dark horse. He could acknowledge that. Especially once she _knew_ Alex, discovered the man behind the appellation. Factoring in his lies, his reputation, and her goodness and fire, he knew she was categorically beyond the bounds of reality. For a long time now, he'd downplayed the weight of his omissions, the power they had to absolutely _level_ them. He'd convinced himself a few well-placed words and flowery apologies and tactful justifications would function as sutures for the damage he inflicted.

And maybe on a different woman that would be enough—and if he was honest, it _had_ been enough for other women, for many, _many_ unrecalled and bygone women—one less cynical, less grief-weathered, more trustful and transparent. But not her. Never her.

As he'd spun out the lie—because it was a _lie_ , not just an evasion or secret or even the hallowed sense of _mystery_ he'd been so keen on preserving—he'd realized how deep his invention would cut. She'd offered him her friable trust, revealed the softness she guarded so possessively, shared her weaknesses and fears. She'd made herself vulnerable to him. A _second_ time. Unknowingly to the author of the book he'd restored to her; to a man who wrote crime novels, was fascinated with murder, the macabre. With law enforcement—and God knows what she'd make of that, if she'd assign ulterior motives to their discourse, their friendship, believe _this_ was in any way conditional on his writing or research or character development.

But trustworthiness, integrity, fidelity were hardly traits ascribed to Rick Castle. A man who was, until the last few reformed months, accurately regarded as an indiscriminate womanizer, one credited with a long succession of female stopgaps in his wake. Beautiful, brief distractions, discarded before emotion or expectations took root. And maybe every woman was simply a surrogate Meredith, each casual encounter and flippant rejection the deserved retribution she had never received, but it hadn't felt that way at the time. After Kyra and after Meredith, after watching his life fragment spectacularly, and then piecing it back together at his own insistence, through his own efforts, the reckless, detached, and transient relationships he blew through were _legion_.

And god, it felt good.

It was revenge, release, power, reaffirmation. And it was too easy, first relying on his literary success, then riding the coattails of his consummate bad boy reputation—which women hated, loved, loved to hate by turns, lapping up his bold innuendo, his carnal, suggestive stares and dissipate outlook on relationships. They wanted to _reform_ him and he let them try. Until he grew restless, decided to move along, and then he disengaged, extracting himself neatly and summarily from their lives.

So yes. It was _easy_. He was surrounded by disenchanted socialites, repressed housewives, and star struck admirers of his work. It fed his famished ego and slaked his physical needs, but he didn't really _feel_ any of it. And it lost its luster far earlier than he'd admitted, long before he stopped using warm bodies as a place to try and bury his rage, to jumpstart happiness or _feeling._ Something beyond the habitual numbness.

And then—over a beer and a burger and a newspaper splashed with his exploits—Weldon had spoken to him in direct and merciless verbiage that first shocked, then inflamed, before finally resounding in him, marrow-deep. Forced him to look long and critically at the piss-poor man he'd made from scratch. He hadn't simply _become_ this man. It was no passive transformation. He'd purposefully, willfully created this version of himself.

Their conversation was as vibrant now as it had been the November night they'd met, and he suspected it would always be that way.

The pivotal moments always are.

Weldon had looked on, a supremely discomfited bystander, as Rick coolly dismissed his latest flavor of the week—a flawless blonde with lovely, plentiful, deeply appreciated artificial upgrades. Even through a slate cigarette haze and several feet of well-worn tabletop separating them, the other man must have discerned very genuine hurt in those pansy blue eyes, in the quivering of her lush mouth. Looking back, Rick could see it, too. After wobbling away on stilt-like heels, crimson soles winking ominously as she'd stalked out of the bar, Weldon had pinned him with a look.

"I'm surprised as crazy as you are about your kid that you're okay with treating women the way you do. That, or you do a bang-up job of acting like you don't give a shit, which in all fairness may just run in the family." He must have given the other man a look of complete perplexity because Weldon regarded him indulgently, folded his hands, calmly expounded.

"I mean, _Jesus_ , Rick. Who do you think these women are if not some poor schmuck's daughter? And here you are, a smooth-operator, a hustler drawing them in with your pretty words before fucking 'em into one week and leaving them the next. No call, no explanation, no apology. You really telling me you've never thought of that, huh? It hasn't even crossed your mind _once_?"

And then he went for the jugular.

"You're really telling me that you wouldn't come within an inch of manslaughter if twenty years down the line Alexis was seduced by some millennial version of you? Charmed, taken for all she had, left out to dry because, hey, he was just having a good time, looking for a little fun, a warm body."

It was like a bellyful of soured milk, that thought. He saw fucking _red_ —he'd always considered that phrase hyperbolic, chalked it up to literary symbolism, but it was apparently a very _real_ side effect of murderous intent—and rolled his shoulder back, knuckles popping as he made a fist, itching to plow a furrow through Weldon's knowing smirk for even _thinking_ it, much less _speaking_ it.

And that was it. That was the moment the self-loathing really picked up.

He felt immediate, nearly palpable shame, and a few days in he was leagues past guilty, reflecting on the droves of women, most whose names he couldn't recall, though the memories of their faces when he dipped out with a disingenuous smile and sans a second thought lived on in brilliant technicolor.

First he hated himself because of the way he'd treated the daughters of nameless, faceless fathers—understanding giving him perspective, a new awareness. And then he'd hated himself for feeling guilty because of solely _that—_ guilty over the way he'd treated _daughters_ , and not in response to the fact that they were simply _human_ and by right deserved respect, kindness, honesty. Four months later, he'd plumbed her book from the depths of a secondhand shop, and that was it. If he'd been leery of falling into the same patterns, that first letter—brief, distant, yet oddly stirring—had eighty-sixed the thought. With the second, his interest was piqued, his mind rebounding to thoughts of her in quiet moments. And by the third, part of him knew. _This_ is what he'd been waiting for. And if not her, someone near the same.

He was so gone on this girl.

"Kate," he soothed, all reassurance, and _why_ was his voice only ever this soft, this gentle with _her_? Her and Alexis. For the same reasons he wanted to tip her chin with his fingertips, know the hues and striations of her eyes, memorize the contours of her face. "You don't have to explain. I'm just glad it's not a no," a nervous laugh rippled through him, "really. I thought I'd spooked you."

"Hardly. I'm a cop. And a woman. In New York. You're gonna have to try a little harder than that to make me run." She'd started out strong, her words crisp, but the solidity had bled out by the time she reached the last word. Recognizing the false bravado for what it was.

But he didn't feel up to the raw intensity of an emotional conversation. Not now. So he swiftly glossed over her comment. "Well, you scare _me_ sometimes. And we're separated by multiple cell towers and bumper to bumper traffic. So, I buy that," he readjusted his grip on the phone and took the moment to gather his thoughts. "And I'm sorry for—you know, for selling you short, I guess?"

"In what way?" Oh, he'd surprised her—the quick response, the way her voice canted upward.

"That I thought you'd dip out," he sighed, thumbing through Alexis' milk-fed excuse for a Jack London classic, resolving to swap out this glorified kindling for originals. And new house rule: no abridged _anything_. It pissed him off. "And I'm mildly interested in making your acquaintance," he tacked on, sideways smile hitching up one cheek.

"Mildly?" She demanded, and he could hear her answering grin.

"Ratherish."

"I don't think that's a word." He loved it when she was like this—mouthy, playful, all inviting flirtation.

"Ah, yes, because Miranda rights and police reports are just _rife_ with exotic lexemes," he shot back.

"A helpful tip for you: if you ever land in prison, absolutely mention lexemes—loudly, while palming food from strangers' trays in the caf—and also incorporate _ratherish_ into conversations with beefy guys in the yard. Incorporate the bend-and-snap into your soap retrievals."

"You're dangerous," he breathed, and to his consummate delight, _that_ pulled a laugh from her. Messy case and all.

"Well, yeah. Cop, remember?" Her voice was warm in his ear, lulling him into candid complacency, and he spoke without editing, without thinking.

"No, because you're a woman."

 _Well, shit._ _Stellar move there, Rick. Spewing all your hang-ups and insecurities after very nearly chasing her off couldn't_ possibly _go awry._

Lifting his head, he jerked it back down with force, grimacing as it knocked dully against the back of the couch—purposefully this time—and he really couldn't _believe_ himself because he'd been within verbal reach of a truce and solid ground and a restoration of that amiable banter that defined their exchanges.

She hummed thoughtfully after a moment, leading fluidly into a rhetorical statement. "I thought we were supposed to be the _fairer_ sex."

It was obviously meant to underplay his gaffe, gloss over his unflatteringly misanthropic perspective on women. And God knows why she _didn't_ ream him, because that was chauvinistic as hell, and her voice alone radiated this feministic strength irrespective of her male-dominated choice of profession or the fact that she packed and expertly handled a Glock 9mm, or could likely subdue him with nothing more than a shoelace and a well-placed scowl.

But she was extending a _get out of jail free_ card, and hell if he'd pass it up. "In terms of beauty? Absolutely. In regards to mercy and dispensation of justice? Agree to disagree."

"My sex thanks you for that glowing commendation," she deadpanned, a real smile lurking at the edges of her sarcasm in spite of her best, most earnest efforts. "But it—well vantage point is the real determinant, I'd think."

"What?" He'd always been directionally challenged, and this— _she_ , darting and fluid and dynamic—was no exception.

"I'm just saying, I—well, the same—the same could be said of men. Which, as a woman—being the _fairer_ sex, of course—I'm entirely qualified to determine," she practically _purred_ her way through the last remark, parading that shiny women's lib streak like he'd predicted, and he wished, not for the hundredth time—because that mile marker had come and gone a half-dozen letters back—that he could match the play of her expressions to her sentiments, her banter. And to devour the smug little smile she wore—oh, he _knew_ it was there, could all but _hear_ the smirk—with the press of his mouth and hands. He wanted that in ways that forced him to his feet, spurred him to pace aimlessly, desperate to burn off latent energy and passion in limbo.

And then she was back, kittenish timbre supplanted by something softer, more _Kate the woman_ than _Kate the detective._ "And because I got a letter, week or so ago. And it's still just—it's sitting on the table, and I know I should open it, should just—just rip the seal, take the damn plunge, wade into his bourbon-fueled dialogue and alcoholic self-loathing. But I— _Christ,_ I don't want to. I'm not ready to even feel sorry for him much less for _give_ him."

 _Her father_ _,_ he grimaced, sympathy coursing through him.

There was a muted peal from her end—the cathodic report of a horn, he noted—and realized she was outside, should've known from the barely-there hitched increase in her breathing—and he imagined her taking long strides, gliding past the perambulating tourists, gaze hard and briery as she made her way homeward. Or maybe not homeward. Maybe doing her damnedest to outstrip her thoughts, her father, the case. Walking aimlessly until blisters and stone bruises and nightfall forced her indoors.

"Then don't," he murmured, the oversimplification tumbling free.

"It's not that easy," she snapped back.

"Make it that easy," his voice dipped down, soothed, compelled.

And after one moment, two, double that, she huffed a laugh. "That's such a _man's_ response. _Make it that easy_ ," she echoed, but there was no bite, no sting in her retort.

"Well, I'm all man, detective," he drawled, toeing their fast-fading boundary line with a pulse, a thrill, raring for a coy salvo, her wry snap back. Dig for dig. Heat for heat.

"I reserve the right to decide that for myself."

 _Oh, Kate. Game on._

"So, just for posterity's sake," he pressed, voice deceptively calm, smile tightly checked, "what you're saying is—you want proof I'm _all man?_ And just how is it you're planning to do that?"

He could swear the silence flushed _cherry_ , her discomposure was just that palpable.

"You're an ass," she recited primly, and a laugh elbowed its way free, too thunderous and too excessive for tasteless innuendo, but she'd just sounded _exactly_ like this starchy, thin lipped Sunday school teacher he'd tangled with in the first grade, and there was this deviant, childish part of him that really _loved_ how easily he could get a rise out of her.

"Guilty as charged," Rick admitted through a grin, "but it's all part of my charm."

Kate issued a decidedly unfeminine snort that broadened his mouth, crinkled his eyes. "Whoever told you that was _lying_ ," she drawled dryly, "and as to that blatant admission of guilt, you should probably start crafting a solid defense."

"Yeah, I'm gonna blame my unstable home life and dissolute childhood on this one," he intimated and was rewarded by a breathy laugh on the other line. A fleeting smile pulled at his mouth in the pause that followed, and after a tenuous beat, he pushed on. "So—um, not to beat a dead horse—"

She cut him off, her traditionally staid voice flip and playful. "Ah, yet another arrestable offense. You're really racking 'em up tonight, Rembrandt."

 _Damn._ Her smoky tones wrapped around legal jargon did indecent things to him, made him glad this conversation was separated by miles of city streets, was strictly auditory. "Is that _actually_ a crime?"

"Shouldn't it be?" She shot back, tone just shy of condemning.

Oh, yeah. Shit. Innocent animal, abject cruelty. That was insensitive. And stupid. Because as a rule girls were absolutely crackers over horses, lost their gorgeous, labyrinthine minds over the fly-ridden things. Time to make nice. _Should've known better, Rick._

"Touché, detective," he placated, conciliatory and warm, attempting to put some distance between his callousness by righting their derailed exchange, "but back to the equine in question…"

"Shoot," Kate allowed.

 _Oh, god bless_. Apparently they were letting this one slide.

And maybe it was the realization that she wasn't going to ream him for his not-so-subtle quip, for making light of animal abuse—her absolution, his anarchic attention span—or something else entirely, but it was out before his brain had really recognized the thought. "Oh, hey, maybe _that's_ what happened to the horse."

A charged pause, and then—"You realize I have a gun, right?"

 _Oh, he knew._

"And handcuffs," he intoned smoothly, half humorous, half unsmiling fervor— _and hopefully sufficiently ambiguous to veil that four-letter thing that'd send her running for the hills, past the hills, into the white-capped Atlantic._ "And was that an admission of _your_ guilt?" The provocations kept coming, wittiness an old, dependable response; a defense against the onslaught of emotion.

"I have _three_ guns, Alex." He could hear her smirk and wanted to rid her of it in creative, equilibrium-robbing ways.

"Surprisingly, that doesn't help," he said plainly, and sank back into the plush recesses of his sofa, propped his heels on the lip of his water-ringed, time-scarred coffee table. "But, hey, maybe we could be cellies!"

"Doesn't _help_? Doesn't help with what?" She challenged, sidestepping—with admirable restraint, he felt—all the possible prison yard references. Chief among them, him being her bitch.

 _Not that you'd mind, Rick._

But now. Back to the origin of this wildly divergent discussion thread. Never mind the hectic pace of his heart or the anxious ripple beneath his ribs. "I think that's a conversation best held in person, don't you? Preferably over a sumptuous meal. And a bottle of Tuscan Cab Sauv."

For a long moment, there was only still air, and _why was this conversation so fraught with freaking pauses?_ Forget tenterhooks. This feeling of stretched-to-snapping was the emotional equivalent of some medieval torture device—the sickening anxiety, owning the reality that this _thing_ might be entirely one-sided, nothing more than a lovely, baseless figment—causing his fingers to curl inflexibly around the corner of a throw pillow, the plastic casing of his phone.

"Sounds like you know your wines," she finally remarked, her equivocation doing absolutely nothing for his nerves. But then, mercifully, remedially, she tacked on—"And we both know you're a passable conversationalist."

"Passable?" He scoffed, raring to her banter. "I'll have you know I have an _extremely_ talented mouth." Oh. That was bad. _Foot_ in mouth. Redlining foot down throat. Not so talented after all. _Jesus Christ_. Again with the involuntary one-liners—a rudimentary, sophomoric, _pitiful_ coping mechanism—and he rolled his eyes, mouth sliding into a derisive smirk, loathing himself in this very awkward moment.

As always, however, she surprised him. "Promises, promises," she murmured, and he swallowed. Hard.

"So," he managed around the cottony knot in his throat, aiming wide with his next question, unable to draw a bead on her forthcoming response, "you didn't regret the timing." She hummed—assent or uncertainty, he couldn't tell—and he took that as an indication to continue. "And that means you—well, that you aren't entirely opposed to meeting?" _Oh, god_. He hadn't sounded this ineptly faltering since the days of violently yodeling, acne-ridden prepubescence, and to be this way with the one woman he _wanted_ to charm—he didn't doubt it was some cosmic, karmic retribution for the spineless, shitty stunts he'd pulled with countless love-starved girls. Giving him a bitter taste of his own snake oil tonic. To be the vulnerable one, to _long_ for something so precarious so deeply, was piercing in its intensity. "It's—I mean," he stumblingly resumed, "I get it if you don't think now is the right time, or I'll understand if you aren't _ever_ comfortable with meeting in person. I absolutely wouldn't—I mean, the last thing I want is to push you, or for you to feel pressured or obligated or—"

"Alex." His name from her mouth was a soft thing, but firm, damming the words in his throat with startling immediacy. "I meant what I said before. I'm not against the notion."

He blinked, his mouth opening and closing on empty air like a fucking goldfish, three-second working memory, glassy-eyed expression and all. "Oh, that's—that's good," he blurted stupidly, and winced as she huffed a laugh.

"I _do_ want to meet," she reiterated firmly, voice even, but the rhythm of her assurance was stilted, as though she was endeavoring to convince herself rather than him.

He made a face, at that realization. Mouth dipping down and eyes narrowing as he kicked back his desire to ride right over her hesitation, struggled to marshal his fast-fading altruism. Because yeah, he wanted to meet her. Fiercely. But if there was any reluctance, any qualms on her part, it wouldn't be real. Wouldn't be the way he wanted it. "But?" Rick prompted evenly, his better nature winning out. Barely.

"I can't until I put this case to bed. I just—I don't have anything left to give."

"You don't have to explain, Kate," he soothed, his inner conflict giving way to empathy, a gentleness he associated solely with her and his bright-eyed daughter. Pushing aside the disconcerting notion, he sighed. "I get it. At least in theory, though I can't truly wrap my mind around everything you're—all the struggles and feelings you're encountering and—and sifting through. So no explanations necessary. Or even _allowed_ , I think. Just—just let me know when it's all over and done. And we'll go from there."

The rush of her exhalation hummed in his ear. "Okay," she murmured, seemingly reassured, and the silence curled around them for a long moment.

"Now," he began, voice brighter than before, "allow me to tell you about the impending and _immensely_ odious gala on my docket, into which I was all but _conscripted_ due to my own myopic jackassery."

"Please," Kate prompted, a smile—the one with teeth, with rounded cheeks and crinkled eyes, or so he vividly imagined—bleeding through the word, warming him. And so he did.

* * *

In the two days following their transparent exchange, he freaking floated. Skated on air as he drifted from mundane task to rote undertaking, a half-smile firmly affixed by his unflappable serenity. Because, given enough time and patience, the romanticized meeting he envisioned—that first look in some sunlit purlieu, a rushed explanation accounting for his smoke-screened identity, warm eyes and half-hidden glimpses flashing over the lip of her coffee cup and beneath the scimitar-curve of her lashes.

At least, that's what his overblown imagination contrived.

Goddamn poetry. That's what he wanted.

Instead, he had an unfixed interval stretching before him, and precious little to do about its reach. Not a kilocalorie expended on his end would speed them toward that eventuality, and dwelling on his synoptic lack of control only made him irritable. So instead, to distract himself, he'd padded down to a dusty café, sufficiently closeted away from the usual foot traffic, and opening a battered Moleskine, began to write. Not like he did on his laptop—alternating between word processor, thesaurus, and fact-checking via web search—but in that raw, unfiltered way he hadn't indulged since Alexis was breaking her baby teeth. And it felt unbelievably _good—_ cathartic and real and innervating, in ways to which the flimsy give of his keyboard could never compare. And fueled by the novelty of pen nib scoring fresh pages and the acidic clout of his macchiato, the words—dynamic, substantive, gripping—broke free of the mechanical uniformity Black Pawn had inspired with their rigid deadlines and expectations.

It was the days of hunger-fueled inspiration, of collegiate stress and youthful ingenuity, of ramen and writing and little else—it was all of that all over again. And so he wrote until the flexors and extensors in his right hand spasmed, until the pen wore a groove in the flesh at the top of his ring finger, and he'd sufficiently exorcised his thoughts and energies for the day.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Brood, scribble, sip. His days followed a familiar if not erstwhile pattern, and he worked doggedly, capitalizing on his inventiveness.

And on the third day—a coincidence which _had_ to have some Biblical significance, because God knows, pun intended, writers never disregarded such blatant symbolism—he sidelined his smudged and coffee-stained compositions in exchange for pomaded hair, a closely shaved, exfoliant-buffed countenance, and the starched confines of his _Brunello Cucinelli_ tux. Creativity resurrected via his literary efforts, maybe. Hell if he knew, he was just pleased—ecstatic, really—with this windfall.

And quasi-rhapsodic over his conversation with Kate.

But those were happy musings for another time, because tonight was about his bombshell agent and the date she'd extortionately wrung out of him. Yay. Despite the dubious nature of said date, however, he'd resolved not to be an ass tonight. Because, after all, his jackassery was the antecedent for this thorny situation. And this whole _thing—_ the formalwear, the town car zipping down Columbus Ave, his mandated companionship—was about him trying to make amends for his baseless faultfinding.

 _Rightly so,_ his better, more principled half affirmed.

Finally, the driver rolled to a stop, tire walls grazing the curb, and Rick gazed dispassionately at the immaculate brownstone before exiting the vehicle and striding to her front porch. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, or if he'd even had any suppositions assigned to her, to tonight, but when she answered the door, it knocked him back, exacted a blink of surprise and a huff of appreciation.

 _Damn_. Girl cleaned up nice.

And judging by the bubblegum flush in her cheeks, she'd noticed him noticing.

Clearing his throat, he offered her a tight smile and an offhand compliment. "You look lovely," he gestured loosely at her sleek gray evening gown, keeping his voice carefully bland. "Ready to go?" Quirking an inquiring brow, and tamping down the pulse of quasi-resentment at the hollow nature of the evening, he offered her the crook of his winged out arm, and the warm cirque of her hands dispatched him, propelling them forward and into the falling night.

* * *

Nose buried in his third flute of _Veuve Clicquot_ , Rick scanned the room for his "date", thoughts vaulting from Kate to his Moleskine to Gina to the current susurration—something about founding fathers and opposition to bipartisanship and political longshots. Turning back to the huddle of literary bellwethers, he honed in on Ron Chernow—for whose published work on business/finance he'd cultivated an odd predilection—and the way his eyes flashed perceptively behind wire-frame glasses, the fervor in his gaze as he exposited on his newfound passion, his parallel fascination with politics. More to the point, a maligned legislative prodigy whose mammoth biography he'd undertaken, the dreamy quality of his bowed smile attesting to his happy immersion in pre-revolutionary minutiae.

God bless him.

Giving the man a parting nod and a brief smile of his own, he migrated to the center of the room, glance landing on Gina's wiry figure foraging at the refreshment table. He hadn't been avoiding her, not precisely, but after they'd drifted apart following their arrival to greet respective acquaintances and colleagues, he'd made no effort to rejoin her either. Swallowing a sigh, he loped toward her, came abreast the blonde, and plucked a croquette from her cocktail plate. The look of bemusement she shot him tightened his chest, because, _yeah_ —he'd been remiss as her date, a fact reflected in the disapproving line of her mouth.

"Sorry about tonight," he murmured softly, and she tilted her head in seeming consideration before giving him a terse nod.

"Don't worry about it," she returned lightly, but her skittering gaze belied her casual absolution and impelled him to action.

Laying a tentative hand on her shoulder, he checked a grimace at the upsurge in her confusion at the touch. "I—that's kind of you, really. Letting me off the hook that way. But it's not okay. I promised you a date, and have, without question, failed to deliver on that front. So let me apologize, alright?"

Her answering smile was small, but at least it was genuine, and he felt relief unfold in his chest. The last thing he wanted from Gina was romance, but she wasn't a terrible human—in fact, he had a sneaking suspicion she was, in all likelihood, a pretty great human outside of a professional setting—and she didn't deserve his aloofness. In fact—he paused, holding the perplexed scrutiny of her gaze—she deserved some transparency, to hear the inside story preemptively, rather than doing damage control. As often as she'd whitewashed his indiscretions, composedly fed the press artful deceptions, placated and emotionally patched up the victims of his sexcapades, he owed her honesty.

"And it's not you, Gina. Me maintaining distance and not inviting you out for a drink or dinner or _whatever_ ," he conceded after a charged beat, watching as her brow creased in confusion at the disclosure, "it's that—well, I've been talking to someone."

 _Oh, that was a shock to her persnickety system._

She didn't look surprised anymore. If anything, she looked just this side of royally pissed, hands jammed against the protrusion of her hipbones, eyes accusing. "Since when, Rick? We've gone over this countless times—you start something I'm the _first_ to know. No exceptions." His name and all the rest rolled off her tongue censoriously, and _he_ rolled his eyes.

 _God_ , he hated histrionics.

"I've literally _only_ been talking to her. That's it. Conversation. No illicit trysts, no debauched dalliances, we're just…talking. And not in public, either." And here was the kicker, the tacked on snippet that altered the thrust of their innocuous and entirely equivocal relationship. "But, full disclosure, we haven't actually _met_. And I don't really know...who she is. Completely. If we're talking legal names and physical descriptors, I mean. Because I know _her,_ I just don't _know_ her. If that makes—you know, makes any sense at all."

The tension that had leaked from her stance resurfaced at his hesitant, bungling admission.

"Are. You. Serious." Despite her level tone, she delivered each word with seething, whip-like accuracy, pretty eyes hard, deep-set slivers of ire now.

"We've maintained our anonymity, though," he offered weakly, the defense pathetic even to him.

"Great," she snapped, angling her body away from the bustling auditorium and keen scrutiny of the attendees. Gratitude for her discretion warred with his rising irascibility as she continued her careful flagellation. "Your identities are an unknown factor in this… _thing_. So you think. But how do you _really_ know she's who she claims to be? And not some nosy, budding journalist with a career-changing advantage resting in her prim little lap? _How do you know_?" She demanded harshly.

"Because I contacted her first, dammit," he hissed, canting forward, stepping into her space, eyes narrowing. Through the thrum of annoyance, he could smell the costly floral notes of her perfume, could see the delicate grains of dried mascara beneath her eyes, which oddly enough, softened his annoyance. That reminder of her imperfections and vulnerability. "Look, I contacted _her_ , and there's not a doubt in my mind she's exactly who she said she was. Not a trace of mistrust, I swear."

"And as a rule your instincts are _so_ dependable, Rick," she shot back with heat.

Jesus. That was pointed. Rocking back on the heels of his patent leather Ferragamos, he felt his eyebrows involuntarily scale the expanse of his forehead, come to a rest against the edge of his hairline, and reveled in the red suffusion of shame that stretched across her chest and cheekbones. "You're not wrong about my judgment. Or the potential risks associated with a choice like mine," he finally murmured, just to break the awkward stalemate, "but despite your disapproval, the relevant constituent in _all_ of this—" he swept a hand between them to emphasize his words, "—is me. And _her_. And what _we_ want."

He broke off suddenly, curling his fingers into a fist, fighting the urge to tunnel his fingers through his carefully tamed, meticulously gelled hair. "I appreciate your professional advice on this matter and will take it into advisement as I proceed," he lied crisply, avoidant gaze trained above her eyes, focusing instead on her immaculate center part because he was so very, very _peeved_ , and now was a remarkably unsuitable moment to draw attention to their hostilities.

Unmoved by his avowals and heaving a beleaguered sigh, Gina retrieved her plate, bit into a tuxedo strawberry, and launched into a weary lecture. "When this all goes to shit—which it _will_ , I've been a publicist long enough to recognize a pattern when I see it—don't expect any sympathy from me. Understand? I'll clean up your mess. _Again._ I'm really fucking good at it; you know? Being your social domestic—sweeping mistakes and regrets under the proverbial rug, mopping up tears, plastering over the holes you've punched in perfectly decent friendships and professional associations. But I won't be a shoulder to cry on or your rebound or the emotional target of your frustration—in each of those roles, I've acted the part with other men. Brought down the goddamn house, really. But not with you. Not this time."

There wasn't any vitriol in her discourse, just this pat pragmatism, which sparked an awareness, a reluctant sympathy in him. She was tired, and she was vulnerable, and she was his first line of defense. He'd taken advantage of her. Taken her vigilance for granted. And odds were—despite her polished, gilded veneer—she was drawing on the vestiges of her mettle. So instead of the searing riposte that balanced on his tongue, he simply muttered, "Glad we settled that. You should...well, make sure to try the eclairs."

And the rest of the night passed much the same—Gina with her plastic smile firmly affixed, flitting from figure to figure and charming half the freaking room with a modicum of effort. Likable or not, _bearable_ or not, Ms. Cowell was a consummate networker and the savviest, most strategic publicist he'd ever had the dichotomous pleasure and misfortune to meet. And then of course, Rick Castle himself—the whiz kid scribbler, his candid bearing and arresting figure drawing others to him with the steady predictability of an ocean current. Not that he minded charming and conversing with his contemporaries. Far from it. But tonight, he was worn to the bone, bled dry of energy and levity and bookish acumen, and by some stroke of luck other eminent frontrunners commandeered discussions and freed him up for gratuitous brooding, for deep ruminations.

And miraculously, they managed to dance around one another, him and Gina. Alternating from one cluster of luminaries to the next with strategic precision until the humanity trickled from the room, into cars and away home, which was their cue.

Mirroring the masses, they emerged from _The Pierre_ , descending the steps side by side, steps matched in cadence, one hand skating down opposing rails. Even their demeanors aligned—remote, brittle, glacial. And their commute was no different, the silence a stale, cloying thing as they mutually fumed on opposite ends of the butter-leather bench seat, clinging to their ire and superiority and all but choking on the viscous hostility.

And abruptly, an intrusive darkness interposed itself between his knowledge and his hopes, a barrier steeped in doubt. For all the trust he _wanted_ to grant her, Kate was still an unknown, and Gina's abject panic had sown a catch in his gut, this nauseating little snag. Which he _hated._ A manic meltdown from a high-strung blonde and he was doubting everything? It was fucking absurd.

But it was real.

And before he'd adequately processed _anything_ , they'd arrived at her brownstone, and he quit the car, rounding the vehicle on instinct to jerk open her door, detachedly assist her as she hastily made for her front door. Somehow, he'd maintained a loose grip on the chilled feather-weight of her fingers as they approached the stoop, and he arranged his features into a neutral expression when she turned toward him, already two stair steps beyond and above his stiff form. "I'm sorry," she breathed, a length of golden hair escaping the intricate coils at the nape of her neck, undulating beside her mouth, fluttering at her exhalation. "It wasn't my place to—I shouldn't have gone off on you like that."

 _Interesting_ , he frowned. And surprising to say the least. Ginas of the world didn't apologize. They stuck to their guns no matter how rusty and careworn the weapon, and never admitted to errors or qualms. But there was only sincerity in her countenance, her eyes glinting like coins in the shine of the streetlamps.

 _Fucking hell_.

She looked near tears, he groaned internally, and lord knows that was the _last_ thing he needed tonight. After their verbal skirmish and feigned interest in their surroundings, their peers, he was one slow blink away from nodding off. "I know _why_ you said what you said. Even if I wasn't a fan of the delivery," he conceded coolly and shuffled his feet against the pavement, warily observing her reaction. It was the closest thing to forgiveness he could afford tonight, his irritation still too near the surface for anything approaching lenient dispensation. For now, that would have to suffice.

But it seemed to stem the impending outpouring of emotion, kept the tears from spilling over the causeway of her waterline. She nodded once, lips lifting in an attempted smile that bore closer resemblance to an expression of pain, and sniffed. "Duly noted," she told him after a dry swallow, and palming her key, turned toward the door. He was halfway back to the car when he heard his name, turned to her questioningly, and braced himself for whatever parting shot she'd readied. "Just…be careful, Rick," she murmured, catching him off guard, her posture unnervingly despondent, aspect carefully blank even from this distance. "There are some things, some betrayals from which you can't recover. No matter how resilient you may be."

She slipped fluidly into the dark recesses of her home, leaving him with that sobering portent and a growing sense of unease and wanting things he half disbelieved would come to pass. Cultivating in him the seeds of fear and doubt that threatened to choke out the hope of his days-old conversation.

And, standing alone on the corner of 69th and Columbus, the night air broken by the idling hum of his town car, the ligature of his bowtie suddenly unbearable, he realized how utterly and spectacularly and truly _alone_ Richard Castle really was.

But it didn't end there, the revelation stretched beyond the limits of his self-pity and into new awareness, igniting a spark that grew to fill, to warm the inner expanse of his chest, because he suddenly knew—Kate was just as alone. And maybe, _maybe_ there was some truth to Gina's insistences, maybe he _had_ invested too much of himself, wagered more of his heart, his hope, his emotional resources than was sensible. But—blatantly disregarding the sick seed of doubt in his gut and Gina's thinly masked pain and his own deeply-grooved, dispiritingly sloppy track record—this was more than fleeting, illusory feelings. On both sides.

Prior to their conversation, he might have owned to being obsessed with an illusion. In love with a fabrication who knew only the manufactured, sterilized version of who he was. Knew only the man he wanted her to know. Who he wanted to be. But it wasn't that. At least, not entirely. Not anymore. He did fear the eventual unveiling, thoughts of her potential responses cinching his throat and hitching his breath— _I'm Alex, I'm Rick Castle, I'm a liar, I'm mad for you_. But where he _had_ been contemplating a tentative _maybe_ , now it didn't seem stupid to bank on the initially far, far, _far_ fetched presupposition of _eventually_. In terms of meeting. In terms of _them._ It no longer struck him as outrageous that she might—now, soon, someday—entertain something beyond dubious friendship for Alex.

And it was a lovely thing, this discovery, he reflected, drifting lethargically, peacefully back to the car—his publicist's precursive warning reverberated faintly, benignly in his skull, but his mind was alive with reiterations of Kate's contralto confidently reassuring him that _I want to meet, Alex_ and the tempered warmth of her voice and the comfortable abandon she'd exhibited with him. Given to him.

No, Gina was wrong. She was wrong and he felt it in the innermost recesses of his gut, in the notches of his joints, in the marrow of his bones.

But despite her profusion of errors, she _was_ right about one thing.

Because even prior to what was now a _long_ overdue corporeal interaction, without a working knowledge of the planes and convexities and divots of her face, and sans a definitive time and place or concrete _promise_ , there was already no recovering from this. Absolutely no recovering from _her_. Like he'd owned before, he was sweepingly, thoroughly _gone._

And strange though it seemed, he didn't really mind.

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _Wow, guys. If any of you are still with me, I owe you poetry and apologies and refreshments, and I hope you know that I'm miles beyond sorry for this absurdly protracted delay. Sorry doesn't really cut it, but hopefully the obscene length of this chapter will help! I fully intend to finish this story, even if it takes me forever (I swear it won't, please sideline your unwarranted panic) and costs me my sanity (a more realistic prospect because grad school is resource- and joy-sucking bitch). Which, yet again, is my justification for why this took so freaking long to churn out! At the start of the new year I transitioned to two new jobs, in both of which my role is that of a technical writer_ — _i.e. researching and meticulously hammering out two systematic lit reviews on two different topics for two unique professors all while struggling to balance a third job, my class load, and find time to sleep/maybe eat/occasionally shower/infrequently brush my hair._

 _Suffice to say, I was kind of burned out on writing. But as soon as final exams and projects had concluded, I sat down and this just poured out. It's a behemoth, and I considered breaking it up, but there was no natural division that I could find, so I just left it as one continuous installation. And I hope you all enjoy it_ — _especially in light of how long you've waited (provided there's anyone still scoping out this little fic). Again, I'm so sorry, and I'm resolving to be better than the deadbeat fic parent you all know and tolerate! Here's to more predictability, and here's to you, whoever's out there._ _To everyone who took the time, thank you for each lovely comment and all the words of encouragement I received._ _I'd love to hear your thoughts on this update, and most of all, I love all of you!_

 _Up next_ — _Kate, a break in the case, and a tragically explosive conclusion._

 _ *** I'm a terrible and completely unintentional tease, so let me apologize for the way I phrased the final bit of my A/N! That cryptic reference to a 'tragically explosive conclusion' is related exclusively to the case Beckett and Sorenson have been working, and is categorically, finitely, and in absolutely no way related to the growing relationship between Kate and Alex/Rick. Promise! Cross my cynical little heart and hope not to die because I'd REALLY like to finish this fic.**_

 _ **And because I apparently spooked a number of you with my absentminded comment, here's a notion I**_  
 _ **hope encourages and soothes you—with the case ending, and Kate no longer consumed by that singular focus, what's to stand in the way of their long awaited, inevitably magical meeting? I'll leave you with that until the next explosive—though in no way relationally destructive—installment, as well as doling out a massive blanket thank you to everyone! Much love and appreciation to everyone still out there!**_


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14: Finally

 _Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them._

* * *

Curled on her good side—the half of her face not a morass of pain and watercolor stains—she stared at the stoplight-red of the digital clock on her nightstand, 1:26 the readout displayed, and despite the sedative some frazzled charge nurse had administered, sleep was leagues away. Every time she closed her eyes, the weight of what she'd witnessed, what she'd thought, what she _would_ have done if presented with a choice, pressed ruthless and unremitting against swollen eyelids, aching throat. Not even the pain of her injuries—the flaying jolt along her spine, the wringing pressure in her head, the straining pulse across cheek, jaw, eye—lingered to divert her thoughts. Eight-hundred mils of ibuprofen had seen to that. And seen to the heat of her fever— _strep, most likely,_ the nurse had said with a look of sympathy, and since they'd frontloaded her with a shit ton of antibiotics for the abrasions she'd garnered from her falls, for the delicate scoring on her face from the whip-like scourge of the branches, the infection was the least of her worries.

The break in the case, the chase, the takedown—it had all happened with frantic speed, the pace whiplash-fast and terrifying. A call from Sorenson had pulled her from a bed too warm from the heat of her feverish skin, his weary voice telling her there'd been yet another abduction, but that they had leads this time, real ones provided by CCTV cameras, footage showing a grainy Dillon McCormack on his bike, the glowing outline of a van, his abduction, and—serendipitously, miraculously—partial plates. And they'd found him. With surprising and infuriating ease. One minute he was a mystery, a nightmarish, almost inhuman monster, and the next, nothing more than a simulacrum of a man—a shadow in a tiny upstate town, a lonely specter every local knew of but no one truly _knew._ They'd made their way to a fallow piece of acreage, the deed made out to Calvin Lee Arnault, and searched the property—slunk through fields fizzing with cicadas and studded with ominous ramshackle outbuildings and his abnormally spotless and starkly spartan farmhouse—to no avail. It was only when they'd ventured into the bottle-green light of the woods behind the farmyard, wended their way through pine and sycamore trees and pushed through tangling overgrowth, that they'd found him. Or, rather, _he_ found _her_. He was all pugilism, untethered ferocity—fists plowing into Kate's face, driving her into the ground, persisting despite the solid hits she landed, and then he was gone, vanishing into the foliage with Kate prone, blinded by blood, and Sorenson pounding toward his partner and the site of the melee.

And after that? After that, the memories were smudged and elongated, like lights through a rain streaked window. She'd followed Sorenson to a basement better categorized as a tomb, into hallways dark and sinuous as catacombs. Arnault had surged from the shadows, had nearly killed Will with a wild blow from the same shovel he'd have, with ironic pleasure, used to dig the agent's grave. While Sorenson foundered, tried to regain his bearings, she'd gone on, had found Dillon, found Arnault with a gun pressed to the boy's chest, and watched in a fuzzed and horror-stricken stupor as he pulled the trigger. Shot the boy. Shot himself. One bullet, two lives. Birds and stone—a terrible, gruesomely rendered cliché. Their blood coating the floor, her heart _on_ the floor, doing what she could to mend, to hold together, to save. In vain— _vanity, vanity, vanity—_ because they'd both slipped away, their blood slick, so slick, that perhaps her grip had failed. Hands unable to maintain their feeble grip. Both lives lost—the innocent boy and the man who'd taken it all away.

Generally, she'd appreciate the reprieve, the blanket of silence, but not _here_ , cloistered in a sterile, frigid room at St. Joseph's, hospital sheets like sandpaper against her rubbed-raw skin, scent of Purell prickling in her nose, timeworn color scheme—all creams and muted teals and sunwashed mauves—sharpening her unease, and the harsh and tremulous silence wrapping, coiling tight around her chest.

 _God_ , the silence. Even the percussive tones of her patient monitor did little to detract from the totality of the hush. It was good for her concussion, she knew, the rest a respite for her overwrought brain. But it was bad, _bad_ for the muscles and sinews of her emotional control. The quiet atrophied her stranglehold on stoicism, thinned it. And she wasn't allowed to lose herself to it quite yet. Not 'til later. Until she was home. Alone and secluded within the insulating layers of doors and walls and sound-blotting textiles. Then, she could come undone.

Technicolor flashbacks bombarded her, bits and nubbins of fraught expressions, gruesome intonations, agony and wet warmth and her debilitating impotence all playing episodically. He'd died. As she'd done what she could to stop it. Eyes falling shut, she tried to snuff out the sight of her failure, her helpless inability to save, but it was inscribed on her. _In_ her—too little, not enough.

Even in self-imposed darkness, she saw him, and the image was damning. He was gone. He'd been gone before he hit the floor, over before _she_ even hit the floor with bruising force to press her hands against his chest, to _save_ him, _fix_ him—not knowing the only fixed element in that moment had been the fight. A nonexistent battle. Because he'd been _gone._

Bloody vignette after bloody vignette, they just kept coming. It had been easy, watching the life leak from Arnault, coolly observing it slip scarlet from him and leech sentience from eyes, and the way she looked on with cold and easy observation bore deep scrutiny and contemplation. But not while convalescing and swelling and weathering and hurting. As with coming undone, she labelled this _later_ and roughly shelved it.

After his mouth had gone slack and his gaze went glassy, she'd turned to face Will—who'd found his way to them after the report of the gun, after Dillon had fallen, as Arnault struggled to breathe and started to fail—and met his frank appraisal. His eyes were very dark, communion and respect and fatigue living there. He'd traced a visual path down, then, her gaze moving to follow, and they both stared at her red hands for a long, still moment.

"Where's my gun?" The rhetorical query interrupted the lull weakly, insipidly, and Sorenson ignored it, closed his eyes and rested the back of his skull against the cool stone. After a bleary scan of the room—steeling herself against the bright blood—she'd spied her Glock, pitched and wedged into a dim corner when, she surmised, it'd all gone to chaos and shit. Stiffly padding over, she'd retrieved it, the familiarity of the grip settling, smoothing something in her, and she'd moored it reverently in the leather groove of her shoulder holster before continuing to the doorway. Kneeling down, she'd looked at Sorenson—who, if it could be believed, was more mangled than she—and exhaled slowly. _I'll be back,_ she'd reassured, his flickering grimace proof that he took a measure of comfort from her promise. And she gave herself over to the shifting shadows and the wend of the walls and the gathering neurosis, the resurfacing infinitely slower, far more chilling than their frenetic descent.

Once she hit daylight, it hadn't taken her long to locate the truant members of their search party who all looked on in horror before staggering after her. Seven of the eight had plunged through the cleft in the earth at her instruction while one cow-eyed kid, all ears and nose and inexperience, shifted disquietedly at her side.

To her surprise, she'd managed to stumble over a patch of benevolent ground, cell mustering a few flickering service bars and dubious reception. Faint relief unspooling in her, just as specious and wavering as those waffling bars, she'd punched in her professional area code—fingers finding 9-1-1—and rattled off her name and badge number to the operator, asked to speak to Syracuse PD, and recounted the pertinent elements in a flurry of epinephrine and verging hysteria. But somehow, the captain made sense of her stumbling, breakneck delivery because he told her—round, thick voice pouring over her, blunting her frenzy like a glaze of warm honey—help was on the way, that ambulances, reinforcements would arrive before she knew it, and not to worry.

An impossible directive.

She didn't feel confident she'd be able to climb out of the cellar a second time—much less voluntarily return to the black vacuum—so she swayed in place, rigid beneath the drippy concern of the tenderfoot, county mounty Dougie Howser, awaiting the arrival of both the EMTs and her battered partner.

After—what she irascibly, edgily felt to be—an interminable passage of time, the men clambered from beneath the forest floor. The seven latecomers—rocked by the carnage, and oh, she'd forgotten to warn them, prepare them—visibly racked with ripe, blue-flame agony that would progressively fade, or so she hoped, to a chronic, well-repressed ache. And one asshat agent—looking wrung out, skin as white as the bones beneath, but face wiped clean of every thought and feeling. She'd wondered if she wore the same mask. Thought she must, because since leaving Will to keep company with two corpses, her features had settled rigidly in place.

She'd worn it as she sank gracelessly to the underbrush, joining Sorenson to lean mutely, dazedly against a tree. She'd worn it as a bevy of Syracuse cops crunched and helloed toward them. She'd worn it as she flatly, unequivocally refused to leave until the coroner arrived and the scene was secured. She'd worn it as the buses rolled in with stretchers and black body bags and kind-eyed medics. She'd worn it when dusk settled over the clearing and fireflies danced in her double-vision and they were cajoled and shuffled into a waiting ambulance. She'd worn it on the long ride into Syracuse, through the indignity of riding flat-backed on a gurney, as a matronly attending drew answers from her bruised lips and palpated her Stay Puft skin and regarded her with knowing eyes so very like Lanie's. And she wore it still, body rucked into a shrunken curl, room too still, thoughts too riotous.

She was contemplating flipping the TV on, flouting the doctor's staunch "advice", because better an extended recovery time than this self-imposed torture. Hand reaching for the remote, she startled, stopped at the sharp report of a fist against her door. Her frazzled charge nurse—Amy, she remembered hazily—slipped her head, then half her torso through the seam of the opening door and gave a weary, albeit genuine, smile. "Is there anything you need?" She asked, her voice low and gentle.

At Kate's hummed _no_ , she nodded, paused, then pressed on. "Would you—do you think you could handle some company?" Her mask slipping, bewilderment bleeding through, the nurse elaborated. "It's your partner. Sorenson? He wouldn't leave it alone, insisted we wheel him over," she chuffed, soft smile growing wider, wryer, "and I'm sure you know exactly how tenacious he can be. But if you don't want anyone here, if you _can't_ , I'll wheel him right back. Don't mind being the bad guy," she tacked on, pushing red, water-chapped hands into the pockets of her scrub top.

For a moment, Kate considered refusing, tuning in to some mindless sitcom or campy reality show instead—an infomercial the likelier feature at this hour, though—and shuffling it all to another _later_ box. Maybe a _never_ box. Because the alternative—discussing, rehashing, revisiting—sounded about as appealing as the process of burn debridement Lanie had once explicitly, instructively related to her. Which, she reasoned dully, it was. Emotionally. Scrubbing the protective, outer layer to expose the raw meat beneath, to stimulate growth, to use the anguish as a vehicle for healing. But rather than shy away as she wanted—oh, she _wanted_ —to do, she bobbed her head tersely, Amy withdrawing for a beat before pressing into the room, steering a gowned and pasty Sorenson to a stop beside her bed.

Amy departed with a considering look and a, "behave" directed at Sorenson, the door snicking behind her, steeping the room in a second wave of silence. Rhythmic feeps and murmurs peppered the quietude neither partner moved to break, and Kate shifted uneasily, mindlessly twisting and tangling her fingers as her eyes all but burned through the outmoded wallpaper.

"Hospital green's not really your color, Beckett," he finally mumbled, nodding at her paper-thin smock, and it almost, _almost_ coaxed a barely-there curve from her mouth.

"Yeah," her voice was still raspy, but at least it had lost its watery quiver. "Well, black-and-blue's not your best look either, but at least I have the tact to keep my mouth shut."

She swiveled her neck slowly, gaze coasting to find him tracing her features with an odd expression. "Touché," he remarked, tucking away that singular look when he registered her scrutiny. He adjusted the cotton blanket over his legs, focus still trained on her, and briefly allowed the quiet to wrap around them.

"How're you doing?" He proceeded finally, and she sighed, found her patch of wall again, grimaced at its mauve and teal brushstroke motif.

"I've had worse." No, she hadn't. "Nothing painkillers and time can't fix. Better question is—how are _you_ doing?"

"Physically? A pretty serious concussion, or so they say. Neuro doc said everything checked out on the CAT scan, but you know how they are about heads—better safe than sorry, let's just keep you overnight to be sure, on and on. Emotionally? Entirely different story. And, Beckett, c'mon. You know that's not what I was talking about. Level with me," his almost tender clarification has her bristling, fighting back the upsurge of emotions she'd credited as securely under wraps. "How are you, really?"

Wrong, so wrong. It was all there, right beneath the thinnest of skin, waiting to rise, to roll, to sink her. "I've had worse," she persisted, eyes narrowing, mouth thinning, jaw riveted so taut her ears pulled back.

 _No, she hadn't._

Everything with her mother had been hell, had been hideous. The pain worse, the impact deeper, the scars more numerous, but _this_ —a child breathing and blinking and hoping one moment, nothing more than cartilage, bone, and tissue the next. Looking on dumbly as the lights went out, futilely holding his body and her wilting hope and willing them both to survive. And straining to beat back the crowding speculations— _if I hadn't said_ this _, if I had said_ that _, if I'd foregone the talk and_ shot _the sick fuck, if I'd known what I was_ doing. All of it was agony.

Would it have all played out differently? Was she the dependent variable in this tragic, ill-fated equation? And if so, how did she shoulder the enormity of that burden, move beyond it, learn to live with the load? It had _taken_ something from her, carved it right out of her chest and filled the gaping socket with hot guilt and stifling shame and all-consuming doubt. Their final clash _,_ Dillon's liquid eyes, the silent seconds before the shot, her useless hands and mouth and brain—the hypotheticals and potentials would live while she lived, die only when she died. The wondering, the maybes, the culpability, they would never really leave, would they? Ebb and flow perhaps, depending on circumstance, but always, always they would remain incapable of resolution.

And the censure in Sorenson's red-rimmed eyes told her he didn't buy a word, syllable, letter of her jaded quip. A tight swallow drew her eyes to his neck, the corrugation of his windpipe, and back to his face as he turned away, gave her the harsh curves of his profile. "First time this happened, I had, too," his admission stunned her, and she froze, "you know, had worse. I lost a brother a long time ago, to something dark and violent—probably a lot like your _worse_ , the kind of worse that makes or breaks you, drives you to work toward justice or into the ground. It's why I joined the bureau. Imagine it's why you joined the force," the accuracy of his assessment clutches at her chest, wets the corners of her eyes, "and we have this funny way of assuming that because we've known grief intimately, our one encounter will be the holding pattern for every other loss. Pain the same, grief process the same, healing the same. And that's just fuckin' bullshit.

"First time life broke the mold was a little girl. Didn't die in my arms, but might as well have, close as we were to saving her. Minutes. Just—it was only minutes." A heavy sigh spills from his mouth, and his throat works again as she watches, barely breaths, suspended in rapt anguish by his words. "Second, a boy, little younger than Dillon. And he did. Die in my arms. Parental abduction gone wrong, goddamn custody dispute, father takes off with the kid, and when we tracked 'em down he just—he lost it. Shot the boy and shot himself. The ME said he'd been drinking but we both knew that had nothing to do with it. The fucker was—he was evil. Something twisted and dark in him, liquor or no. And now," he murmurs, winding down, "my third. So I consider myself uniquely qualified to tell you that you haven't _had worse_ , because every last one _is_ _worse_. Each loss is its own."

She didn't know how to respond, felt a tumble of words, a soliloquy's worth knocking around in her chest, but somehow, the shape of them all felt wrong. Empty. A sudden crawling sensation traced over her cheeks and in her nose, left her nonplussed. Was she _bleeding_ again? Raising a hand to collect the moisture, she brought it back to her line of sight and went still, eyed the translucence as the crawling grew to warmth grew to palpable wetness and her eyes pricked and her nose stung. It was all leaking out of her, those bulletproof walls she prized as substantial as sieves now, and then she was gasping, "I just—I let him die."

Sorenson whipped his head around and went soft, almost pliant with shared grief at her tears. "Who? Dillon?"

"No—yes," she managed thickly, almost choking on her tears and viscous saliva, "him, too. But I—he was—Arnault was dying, he was bleeding out and I just _let him_."

"Even if you'd gone to find help, you couldn't have made it back in enough time. Just wasn't possible," he placated her, and in the mellow timbre and pitch of his quiet reassurance, it sounded true, real. The sin allowable. But her neglect, her callousness wasn't excusable. Yeah, Arnault had been dead even breathing, his foundering heartbeat a technicality in those last savage moments, but it was more than that and she didn't, _couldn't_ vocalize it, _couldn't_ entrust it. Not to Sorenson. Maybe not ever.

But _maybe_ yes. Maybe to Alex.

It was the first time in the course of twenty-two bad, _brutal_ hours she'd given herself permission to consider him, bring to mind his warmth, the preternatural way he saw into the quick of her through miles of telephone wire and layers of viscera and emotional barricades. And the urge to hear his voice, let the familiarity of his growling baritone ground and center her, pulled a fresh, silent sluice of tears from her.

But Sorenson was still surveying her through drained-dry eyes, the blue glassy as iridized marbles and shot through with ribbons of red. If she had any mercy in her, she needed to wrap this up and allow him to pitch fast and easy into sleep, into forgetfulness as she so wanted to do.

So she croaked out a feeble, "Thanks, Sorenson." And she meant it. He'd been there—in the trenches of this manner of loss—navigated the topography, recognized the landmarks, and he wanted to give her his roadmap. The gesture was kind, was confidential—a brothers-in-arms disclosure. And she was honored.

Dipping his head in acknowledgement, he canted forward and mashed the call button with a thumb, quietly requesting assistance before sitting back with a hitching groan. Another measuring glance, a shallow breath, and he was intimating muted words. "And whatever you feel about this, whatever shame or guilt you attach to your choice, you should know that what you've shared, it terminates here. It's never gonna move beyond this little room unless you let it, Kate."

Her name was soft and warm in his mouth, and for a moment the thought drifted through her mind that his sentiments might stretch beyond brotherhood and _bound-by-trauma_ camaraderie. But instead of dwelling on the notion, she tipped her mouth in a grateful expression, pressed dry palms over water-spiked lashes, and cast her face down as a nurse—not Amy, a smaller woman, darker, more reserved, her shift rotation replacement, she supposed—slipped in and after a brief exchange with Sorenson, adeptly wheeled him, slump-shouldered and shutter-eyed, from her homage-to-the-80s accommodations.

Alone again, feelings unleashed and splayed wide, she honed in on the one thought that loomed, beetled, troubled her—and maybe _troubled_ was too tame, because it was darker than that, baser. One thought _festered_ in her. What she'd done, standing, hands primly folded and eyes casting dark judgment as a man—a human still, no matter his sins—exsanguinated a scant yard away, what did that make her? Even knowing help and medical measures were far above at ground level and a good mile removed, she'd done nothing but look on with clinical disdain.

And perhaps that was permitted, a forgivable offense all things considered, but it went beyond that. She'd seen him suffer and she'd _luxuriated_ in it—a voyeur of death, a connoisseur of suffering. So what did that make her—allowing, scrutinizing, savoring a man's death?

Pragmatist? Vigilante? Just?

Or killer?

Blank eyes fixed on the bed rail, she decided she didn't know.

* * *

She surged upright in the bed, a dry, sucking gasp ripping from her throat, and swept her eyes over the room, hypervigilance drawing her body taut, combat-ready. It took her a moment, eyes adjusting to the dark and skittish pulse coming to heel, before she relaxed and took stock of her surroundings.

Right, hospital. St. Joseph's, grade-2 concussion, face so bruised she'd give Violet Beauregarde a run for her father's used car money.

Good times.

Whatever the dream— _the nightmare_ , she amended—its dark fingers had faltered, grip relinquished, and only traces and transient wisps of its substance lingered. For which she was thankful. Give it time, and there'd be a surfeit of remembered retellings, sleep-induced terrors. But for now, sedatives on board, they remained at bay.

Angry red numbers burned in the dim room, fuzzy at their edges and doubled ever so slightly, reading 5:17 now, which all things considered was a decent stretch of uninterrupted sleep. And with her concussion, a nurse would've roused her shortly, if her dreams or bladder hadn't beat them to the punch. Swinging her legs over the side, she swallowed around a moan at the pangs that branched, blistered through her at the movement, but it galvanized her—the pain, the vulnerability, made her want to rout it, prove it wrong—and she stood on rickety legs, using her IV pole to brace her weight as she rolled, shuffled, sighed to the _en suite_.

By the time she emerged, she felt a little sturdier, less like a newly dropped foal and more like the woman who sprinted in Stuart Weitzman half-boot stilettos. And when she folded herself into the pleated, now-cool covers, she turned her face toward the windows, drank in the grey glow that seeped through the blinds, and let her thoughts drift toward happier territory. To Alex. And _oh,_ to the once impending and now imminent thing that hung between them.

Meeting him.

Putting a mouth to the voice and hands to the letters and eyes to the insights. It flared in her, the thought, a kernel of warmth blooming behind her ribs, rising to float, lift her mouth, bend it up.

Maybe the thrill of survival still sang in her, fueling impetuosity, and maybe it was the release, the closure—no matter how bitter, how aversive—and the reality gifted to her by the _end_ of it all. And maybe it was just _her—_ the wanting, the the thought of him. The need to _know_ , and to make this real in a new and tangible form. But, naked beneath her paper gown, more dips and swells on her face than a raised relief map, she did the thing Alex had nurtured, inspired with his _thereness_ , and for the first time in a long time, she leapt.

Palm settling on the handset of the cream desk phone—clueless as to the whereabouts of her cell—she raised it to her good ear, punched in his number from dim and specious memory, and listened with bated breath as the line chirruped brightly, and _oh god,_ it was 5:30 in the freaking morning and _Jesus_ where was her brain? Slumbering sweetly beneath a dose of clonazepam? Flushing at her poorly timed impulse, she gingerly stretched an arm to press her fingers against the switch hook when the line gave a _tick_ and a rumbling hum bled into a rasping, "Yeah, hi? Who's this? Is it—I'm—Oh. Kate. Hey."

It started bleary and by the end was summery and certain and how had he _known_? And yeah, he sounded so smugly, stupidly pleased at his mental sleight of hand, his astute deduction—and the scouring grit of his voice, the five-o'clock-shadow of it rubbed rough and warm over her, provoked the best kind of shudder. He was too agreeably, readily pulled from sleep when the sun still hid itself behind the curve of the earth and the jagged city skyline, and she liked to think he wasn't traditionally a morning person. That she might be the reason for his wakefulness, his brightness.

"Kate?" He prompted after a moment, real concern in his voice, which she expected now the fog of sleep had fallen from his mind and awareness took its place. Because it _was_ early, too early, and she'd never called before nine or after midnight to date.

"I'm sorry," she breathed contritely, pushed closer against the handset, lips grazing the mouthpiece, "I wasn't even thinking when I picked up—just, sorry. I'll—I'll call back later, once the sun—"

"I'm glad you called," he stated plainly, and she heard a rustle as he shifted on the bed, the sound evoking thoughts that stained her cheekbones red, "I tried to call you last night but you didn't pick up. And you—well you usually shoot me a perfunctory text if you're in the middle of something, even if it's just a word or two, so when nothing came I was—yeah, I was worried," his huff of sheepish laughter torques her gut, because yesterday had been _bad_ and sparse degrees shy of going sideways, and if she hadn't made it out, what then? What would he have thought? And _god_ , what a shattering way to learn—through the nightly news or a section in the Times or a web search because _she'd never called him back_. She had to swallow against the burl of remorse in her throat.

"Kate?" Her name was sharper now, the worry honed to a fine point, and she debated for the space of a moment with how honest to be, how open. And as he jerked in a tight, preparatory breath, she decided.

"I'm in the hospital," she told him calmly, seamlessly following it up with a placation, "but I'm okay. Or—no, I'm not okay. But I'll—I'll _be_ okay. No permanent damage or anything too serious. Promise."

All she could hear was her own breathing looping through the mouthpiece and into her ear, wondered if maybe she'd dropped the call, shitty Syracuse service to blame, when he was back, his voice urgent and intent, "Where are you? What hospital?" And an awareness slunk through her, a tender gratefulness that his first thought was to _be_ with her, and it bypassed nerve sheaths to whet, awaken _feelings_. A surfeit of them. That she had no business feeling.

"Alex," she started, trying for soothing, but the swelling around her mouth asserted itself, muffled her words, and the effect was a strange one, stopped the distant rustle of his movements, "I'm not in the city," she provided more clearly as his voice coasts over hers simultaneously, demanding, "What happened?"

Waiting, letting the tension fade, she hummed and repeated simply, "I'm not in the city. It—we were working a case, and things—well, things _happened_ , and I'm a little worse for wear. Not as bad as my partner, though, which is—that's a good thing, believe me." Her reassurances trailed off weakly faced with his silence, his tension, pulsing and vivid. "You, ah—you there, Alex?"

"Here," he returned softly, and she forced herself to wait, bite the meat of her lower lip impatiently as the quiet stretched between them. "Kate, what _happened?_ " Oh. _Oh,_ he sounded like a little boy, voice catching, unguarded and despondent, and her heart faltered. "Were you—were you shot? I mean, what—"

"No, no. I'm not shot, not anything that—that final."

 _No, of course not. You felt, watched the life leave a kid you were tasked to save, and then gloried in the slow death of his killer._

So, yeah. Nothing that final.

"I'm just—I'm a little banged up, is all. Perp got the drop on me, gave him the advantage to land a couple of hits—" _hard hits, brutal hits, concussing hits_ , but she sidestepped any descriptors for his sake, "—and roughed me up enough that they—uh, wanted to keep me overnight. For observation."

"And _where_ are you?" He needled. And it should've pissed her off, the presuming way he inserted himself into her life, expected to know and to help and engage. But instead, as Alex did with most aspects of her life, he proved an exception. Grudgingly, privately, she _liked_ it. And some of the starch and biting fear had run out of his voice, so she looked the other way, chose not to call him on it.

But that didn't mean she was obligated to comply. "Upstate," she equivocated, and could _feel_ the disapproval filtering through miles of wire and handfuls of plastic. "I'm _fine_ , Alex."

"Don't," he warned quickly, jaggedly, but pleadingly, "you don't get to tell me you're fine when you're holed up in a hospital, too _roughed up_ to walk it off. And if you think I'm gonna accept that bit of shined up bullshit? Well, on behalf of my intelligence, I'm insulted. So just—just _don't_ , okay?" How did she follow that up without spilling more equivocations or slanting her words? The case was miles from settled, was splintered and fragmented, in fact—pieces of it flung to every angle, sun spokes of details and paperwork and evals and reports and statements and legalities stretching before, skirting around her. And until they'd salvaged all the scattered bits and smoothed it all pat for the higher-ups and public, anything around this case, this goddamn _debacle_ , was out of bounds and destined for redaction. It was just too _messy._

"'kay," she breathed, and adjusted her shoulder, spine smarting, cheekbone throbbing, and she blames the sedative—again—for the honesty that spills out of her. "If I could talk about all of this—well, the situation that's consumed me since we started swapping letters, you'd be my go-to guy, you realize? But they, uh—that'd actually violate a veritable _slew_ of hard-and-fast rules, and another _surfeit_ of implied statutes. So, in place of the openness you're wanting, the most I can tell you is—all things considered, looking back on how it might've played out, weighing what I know against what went down—I'm the lucky one in this equation."

A fleeting snapshot of Dillon lying on the floor flickered, vanished behind her eyes, and her eyes screwed tight against the visual. Because that was just too goddamn sobering.

"Lucky," he parroted, appalled, and then the line hissed and popped as a laugh scraped free from his chest. "I can't—I can't talk about this anymore. I—It's driving me up the wall. So we'll—we can discuss the finer points of this later. Please? When you're not in the hospital and you're farther from it, and when I'm not so—not so on edge."

"Sure," she complied easily, just wanting to _move_ from this very dark palaver to brighter dialogue, something that leached the blackened notes from Alex's voice. After a spell—collecting his thoughts, gathering his composure, busying himself with coffee or the crossword, she didn't know—he ventured quiet words.

"You have a ride?"

"Back to the city?"

He answered with a feathery hum and she released a breath. "Yeah, I—a friend is gonna pick me up this morning soon as I wrap up with discharge papers."

 _But you wanted to offer_ , she knew, and what was more, she might've said yes.

On another day. In another life.

"Good, that's—I'm glad you've got someone there with you," his voice lifted as he affirmed her, and she couldn't help the smile that blossomed and burgeoned all the way up to her eyes, because she knew, was _certain_ , that the scrimpy cluster of phrases about to break free would shock the hell out of him, maybe effect an about face and pirouette his day around. Her day around.

So, here goes. Her little moment to glow if not shine. And a chance to give him something because far too often she was on the receiving end of his too seldomly reciprocated thoughtfulness, his quiet tenacity. "Yeah, yeah, me too, Alex. Oh, and we—well, we managed to wrap up our case—" _ignore the pain, look past the bloody, shitty conclusion,_ she thought sternly and pressed her teeth into her lip, hard and cuspate and grounding, before continuing, "—which should leave me with plenty of time to, oh, I don't know, catch a movie, take a stroll in Central Park, grab a coffee from this vendor I really, _really_ —"

"Don't toy with me, woman," he demanded on a growl, and this time it set her on edge in all the right ways.

"Don't expect me to stop," she quipped smartly, and was gratified—relieved more than anything—by the pleased, albeit subdued, laugh that escaped him.

"I would never presume to do so, detective," her title slid smoothly from his mouth to wrap around her, more endearment than label, "but I _will_ presume in asking you to—just meet with me, Kate. Anywhere, anytime. Name the place, the date, the conditions, all of it's in your court, because after all, you _are_ the one with the gun." The innocent comment slices through her, a resurgence of guilt and flashbang of shame that she has to shoulder past. Because she wants to stay in the moment—this happy slice of grey morning before the bitter day ahead. So, she huffs in a passing semblance of a laugh before he goes on. "So, uh, tell—tell me what's cooking in that mysterious brain of yours?"

 _Oh, so many things, Alex._

First and foremost, the notion of finally connecting with no space, no depersonalization to serve as a buffer thrilled her even as she shrank from the thought. A friendship— _is that what they had?—_ couldn't function on anemic, sporadic interactions for long. Not if it was expected, intended to last or flourish or deepen.

There was that.

And then there was the thought of _Alex_ , whose name, she often failed to remember, wasn't Alex at all. At the outset, his admission—using a pseudonym, possessing some high-profile alter ego—had struck her as a fiction. A romanticized embroidery meant to dupe her, impress her. But when the honest, plain-spoken reluctance of his words had penetrated, she'd believed him, was shocked, piqued, upset. And after processing, after letting go of the lie, she was grudgingly intrigued. Because he was a mystery, and mysteries were her unequivocal long suit, meant to be solved and explained and brought to a close. This future meeting at Remy's—in the late afternoon, she decided, while the sun was still high and the foot traffic light—it was their close.

And maybe, hopefully, a beginning.

Winding a strand of unkempt hair around her finger, a contradictory amalgam of contentedness and alacrity and grief collecting in her chest, she let out a slow breath, relaxed into her pillows and stared at the tomorrow sky. "Until I can tell you in person, my thoughts are my own. After all, this is my last chance to play the infinite enigma that inspired your letters, and I'd like to hold on to that while I can, just a little longer. It's my prerogative."

And very softly, artless and earnest, he averred, "I think, no matter how much I learn, you'll always be a mystery to me, Kate."

* * *

Two weeks, she'd insisted. Two interminable weeks before they were slated to turn up at Remy's—it killed him that they'd both frequented the diner, both loved the grease-sodden cheeseburgers and crisp steak fries and that their paths had somehow, lamentably, never connected. Two weeks before they could set eyes on the other, figment into flesh.

It was _killing_ him.

And he was practically _delirious_ from the wait, positively moonstruck.

He'd never been to Disneyland, Disneyworld, any of the Disneys as a kid—regularly scheduled Broadway shows tended to conflict with potential family excursions—but having seen Alexis' dippy, persistent elation in the weeks before they left for California, he imagined this chafing, bundle-of-nerves sensation to be the adult comparison of her boundless joy. Or a near thing, at any rate.

But being more keyed up than a Steinway did wonders for his writing. Once after some launch party a couple years back, he'd gone home with this leggy, fledgling model, all hungry eyes and bottle-blonde hair. And back at her closet-sized walkup, he'd made Bisquick pancakes while they'd passed a blunt back and forth, toking on it and consuming massive amounts of his burnt-edged, syrup-soaked workmanship, and about an hour in, a blaze of inspiration swamped him, compelled him to write and write and _write,_ as the model slept inelegantly splayed on her sofa—lithe body still untouched—and the sun struck the crusted panes of her windows. Everything was brighter and sharper and so incredibly simple and the words flowed in a seamless runnel from brain to hand to paper.

To date, it was still one of his favorite scenes—descriptions crisp, characterization flawless, dialogue snappy and humorous—and that feeling of clarity and wakefulness was back. She'd resuscitated it with the promise of _two weeks._

Paula was thrilled by the development. Gina was ecstatic. And he was grateful for the heightened vision, and indebted to Kate—an inadvertent muse. Not that he'd tell her that. Knowing the contrary woman, she'd be peeved by the saccharine suggestion, so he smugly tucked the thought away because if she was entitled to her secrets, he could cache a few of his own. Maybe that was childishly vindictive, but really, _really_ —it wasn't even a proper secret.

A week deep into their holding pattern, Martha had dropped by, a mesh farmer's market tote in hand bulging with dirt-caked root vegetables and mysterious oblongs wrapped in brown craft paper. "Did you know," she chimed, kimono fluttering, some tuberose scent suffusing his kitchen as she transferred unknown foods into his crisper drawer and freezer, "that there's the most darling little setup off of Grand and Mulberry? A couple dozen vendors hawking their wares—reminds me of Europe—and I just _had_ to pick up a carton of kumquats to make that glorious tagine that Elaine Stritch just _raved_ over."

Staring at her over the edge of his laptop, he forced back a barb of sarcasm, a dismissive aside. Ever since their biting tabletop discourse, she'd been trying to slowly, organically—taking that approach to new and literal heights, he thought, smirking at the produce—mend the rift. And he'd been letting her, because meddlesome and mildly egotistical though she was—and pot, meet kettle, yeah, he knew—the woman was his mother, and he cared for her, about her, and valued their unorthodox relationship more than he'd ever let on. Padding to the counter, he pinched one of the thimble-sized fruits between his thumb and forefinger and contemplated it intently. "Marvelous," he muttered smilingly, "they match your hair, mother."

"Yes, well, as with kumquats, redheads are the "golden gems" of the coiffured world," her hand traced a flourish as she retorted, threw a spiny little look his way, then stopped. "You look—well, you look good, darling."

Both eyebrows rucked upward at the compliment, rarely doled out as they were. "Thank you for that," he returned hesitantly, trying to draw a bead on her odd expression, "I'm using this new multivitamin and I, you know, ate all my Wheaties this morning, so—"

"No. Stop trying to be funny, Richard. I mean it. You look—well, you look happy," her remark was warm, and the warmth filled her eyes and canted her head to one side. And _wow,_ if this version of Richard Castle bore such a marked difference from his previous self, what must that have looked like?

Somewhat defensive, he looked away, corners of his mouth deepening. "Ah, yeah. So, I wasn't happy before?"

"You were," she clarified hastily, arms folded, one hand coasting from elbow to shoulder in an absent, soothing gesture, "Or at least, I always assumed you were. You have Alexis and your writing and a wonderful, _enriching_ life, so no, I never doubted you were happy. But this is—this is _more_. I haven't seen you like this since your—well, not in recent memory."

Expectant eyes—the sky blue of his daughter's, the less saturated shade of his own—regarded him, the array of splashy rings clinking as she interlaced her fingers. And he debated for a moment—to share or not to share—because he didn't feel like justifying his life choices to a woman who'd once taken a role in _Marquis de Sade,_ the musical, but in the end he'd caved. Mouth creasing, face brightening, he let the whole of it tumble forth—her _once the case is over_ avowal, her radio silence and justifiable rationale, her _the case is over_ declaration, and the consequent, detective-imposed waiting period. Through the telling, Martha sat placidly, wordless and receptive, burnished head canted to one side, until he concluded with a very un-writerly, utterly anti-climactic, "so, yeah." And then waited for her response, a little rigid, a little anxious.

It took a moment, but that award-winning smile took over her face, and she was suddenly all garish kinesis, skirting the counter to envelope him in a tight and bony embrace that he returned on instinct, and then in earnest. "My dear boy," she said against the flannel of his shirt, undoubtedly staining the fabric with her vivid lipstick, "I'm so very, _very_ happy for you. And if she's half the woman you've intimated—and half the woman I've read about—I'm wholly delighted. Quite literally."

"Just watch the cart," he huffed, pleasure still lighting up his eyes, but abashment bleeding through, "the horse is—well, she's skittish. And even if I know my feelings, she's hard to read, especially given our exchanges are all blind."

"Duly noted," she pulled back, still all smiles and glaringly blue eyes, "but, darling, a bit of advice. Never, under any circumstances, draw on horse metaphors when discussing women. It's bound to end in tears. Likely on your part."

Right, yes. No equine comparisons. His mother, a fount of veritable wisdom.

She'd stayed for the rest of the afternoon, just the two of them while Alexis toiled away in some mahogany paneled classroom led by ivy league graduates and holders of . They'd prepared the tagine after all, made use of the kumquats, and served the stew over brown rice, savoring it slowly between sips of Cabernet. It was a good afternoon, sweeter than the rich, round red they'd shared—unequivocally, one of the best memories he had with his mother—and he, at least peripherally, had Kate to thank for that.

And his mother wasn't the only barometer attuned to his sunny, emotional shift.

That Saturday, he'd ordered out for pizza, and he and Alexis had nested themselves in a crater of cushions and timeworn blankets. Knuckle-deep in a bowl of kettle corn, eyes trained on some godawful straight-to-video flick, she'd sighed, asked abruptly, "Are you still talking to your friend? The one you think you _like_ like?"

He fought the urge to turn toward her, focusing instead on maintaining his cool, formulating the right response, with honest words framed properly, an accurate representation of the dynamic between him and Kate. "Yes, we're still talking," he affirmed, and he felt her head _bob dip, bob dip_ in acknowledgement, though she didn't look away from the gaggle of animated characters, the worst CGI he'd seen since Spielberg in the 80s. "And I think—well, we _are_ going to meet. Soon. Just for coffee, to talk and, you know, see each other in person."

She fumblingly pressed a prodigious handful of popcorn into her mouth and chewed slowly, considered deeply, her narrowed eyes like slivers of broken mirror. Swallowing down the mouthful, she turned to him, strawberry hair stained cinnamon from her bath, the fruity notes of her shampoo wrapping around them. "That's good," she told him decisively, in that endearingly bossy, sagaciously assured manner every kid seemed to own and only kids could pull off, "you smile more."

Oh, that almost hurt. That his kid noticed such a marked difference in him, an alteration attributable to the promise of _coffee_ in a _diner_. Didn't matter though—he could be drinking warm Coke in a Chinatown alley with her and still feel like the luckiest bastard this side of the equator, effervescent as the soda he'd choke down beaming. But still. She'd noticed. And he hated that. " _You_ always make me smile, pumpkin. You know that, right? That you make me happier than anything—writing, laser tag, _ice cream_ ," he flared his eyes at her and she gave up a reluctant grin, pink tongue peeking through the space a tooth once occupied. God, his kid was perfect, and he knew every parent said it, thought it, but they were wrong—their kid wasn't _her._ Ergo, wrong.

Growing sleepy and soft, she raised a hand to press the cotton of his shirt, ran fingers over the wet blot her hair had left behind. "Sorry," she apologized and he scoffed.

"You kidding me? It smells like fruit punch now instead of corn chips. By all accounts you did me a _favor_." Shaking her head at his playful brush-off, she sank boneless into the pocket his chest wall and bicep formed, curled against him with all the finespun warmth of a kitten.

"I know I make you happy, dad. But it's okay if she makes you happy, too," she murmured around a mouthful of black t-shirt, ever his little emissary of happiness. "And she sounds cool," she added, voice admiring and a little dreamy.

That took him aback—that his daughter had mentally assessed the hints and glimmers of information he'd provided, had drawn an opinion on this abstract woman he so admired. "Yeah?" He prompted.

"Mm-hmm. She's a detective, so she's gotta be tough and smart, and you like her so she's probably funny and nice. And you guys both like mysteries—you could, like, get your own van and be like Fred and Daphne."

A laugh escaped him before he could stifle it, the thought of trading in his Ferrari for an Astro van, pimping it out with garish splashes of color and psychedelic accents absurd but oddly appealing, somehow. Only if she was there, though. "With your red hair? Pretty sure you're Daphne, kiddo," he propounded, but she shook her head decisively, lashes of her wet hair sliding against his forearms.

"Nope, I'm Velma. She's short and she's really smart and kind of serious and if the team didn't have her everything would— _poof_ —just, like, fall apart, you know?" Her rationales should've tickled him, and did in part—because really, she was so assertively presumptuous—but there was more than a modicum of truth to her words at least in regards to _him._ Because she was, or had been for years, the primary component, sugar-and-spice adhesive that held the parts of him together—he looked before leaping, kept himself healthy and safe for her, _because_ of her. So, he couldn't laugh at her claims, because her innocent assertions hit too close to home.

"Fair enough," he allowed gently, running a rough palm over the satin of her shoulder, "and you think—do you think Daphne and Velma might get along? Better than what we saw in the show, at least? All that bickering and cattiness in the Mystery Machine—I mean, _our_ Daphne and Velma wouldn't resort to nastiness, am I right?"

Movie temporarily forgotten, she'd glowed, smile wide and real, mind tracking with his analogy and lighting up at the implication. "I'd—I mean, Velma and Daphne would probably really like each other. They both rock a skirt, and they're tough and not afraid of anything, and they help other people together, so yeah. I, um—I think they'd get along okay. _Our_ Daphne and Velma would."

It was more than he'd been hoping for, especially as he'd never done this—introduced, even tangentially, a woman into Alexis' life, her sphere of consciousness. The risk had always seemed too great. Bringing the feminine warmth and curving softness and maternal implications of a flesh and blood woman to their doorstep and expecting Alexis to remain uninvested was cruel, outside the bounds of reality. If her little finger even grazed the pulse of his relationship—a meaningful conversation, a shared dinner, an exchange of glittering smiles—she'd fall for the lovely creature, whoever she was, in the space of two blinks.

But this, Kate, it was different. Not only because his gut insisted it, or because some inner voice soothed the ruffled feathers of his overprotective paternalism, but because it was, for all intents and purposes, out of his hands. She'd crept into the cracks of their conversations, into the spaces of offhand remarks, her name bleeding inadvertently, thoroughly into the normalcy of the everyday. Alexis referenced her, he repeated something she'd said, his kid checked out library books on law enforcement. Like it or not, _want_ it or not, Kate Beckett was an ever-widening thread in the weft of their lives.

So he was glad. That his daughter didn't feel threatened, or displaced. That she bore some excitement at the prospect of Kate and of a one-day meeting and at the growing shape of his something-more-than-friendship with her. It freed up a tangle in his chest, loosened the pressure in his gut, and allowed him to imagine and _yearn_ for things he'd shunted aside for as long as two letters in.

"I think so, too," he'd affirmed, voice rasping with deep feeling, and curled her more tightly, more closely against him, reveling in her little girl softness and tropical sweetness, dreaming of the promise of _Kate_ and of the checkerboard floors and paper lined baskets, of Remy's and tomorrows and one days and maybes.

* * *

Lunch, she'd told him. A late one—two o'clock at Remy's, last booth on the left, and she'd be wearing a green blouse. It felt a little like espionage, their first encounter, all secrecy and unknown faces and assumed names and designated meeting points, but so much _better_. Because instead of state secrets or damning manila folders, they were trading in conversation, in realities.

Finally.

Every last insecurity, each fretful fiber in him buzzed anticipatorily, though. Excitement merged with anxiety at the thought of that _finally_ —at the thought of eyes colliding, of breath catching, of impending exchanges, of _I'm Richard Castle, I'm Alex._

 _I'm a liar._

Well, not a liar, perhaps. Not exactly. But an editor, riding the coattails of omitted facts and redacted details that better suited his preferences, protected their relationship. Given they had any relationship to speak of after his divulgence. Because it just _seemed_ specious, could seem dissembling or false, or at worst, even prove terminal to a girl so hurt by the lies and virtual desertion of her father—the author of a book once lost returns it, he solves the mystery, confers with an enigma, peels back her layers, insinuates himself into her life. He could only imagine the play of her thoughts, the implications she would read into his action and inaction, both—was this a flash in the pan, the page 6 playboy in it for the mysterious thrill, slated to flake out once the excitement had waned? How those moments, those explanations would go over was anyone's guess, but the worry ate at him, bright and greedy—a flame licking, devouring paper, curling its edges to ash.

And it was all here. _All_ _here_. The morning of _today_. Of finally.

The nighttime hours had stretched elastically, dripping viscous as ropy strands of molasses, and sleep had slipped over and off of him in predictably wavelike, rhythmic surges. And despite the inconstancy of his restfulness, he was wide-eyed now, thrumming with the vitality of a half dozen espressos, and just so very, very _alive_.

Saturdays were ordinarily reserved for late wakeups and resplendent brunches and hours of drowsily followed cartoons, but he'd vaulted from the quilted recess of down pillows and expansive duvet, the arrival of _finally_ too animating, too stirring for anything languorous or relaxing. So he'd lurched into the frenetic day with a lung-searing run, siphoning the blood from his brain to fuel straining muscles and desperate alveoli, scrubbing out thought for a good forty minutes. And a stretch beyond that, too, body so drained and wrung dry that his only sense of longing was for water—in his body, on his body, any way he could get it.

But stepping from beneath the spray of the shower meant resubmerging himself in thoughts of her and the accompanying barrage of possibilities and hesitations and fears. It unequivocally sucked, not being able to truly enjoy the _finally_ of the day. But really, he had only himself to blame for that. And, too, when had anything between them—conversations excluded—been easy?

 _Time to suck it up and tighten the laces, Ricky._

Toweling dry his hair, he'd dressed himself in the comfort of ratty and well-worn castoffs, and drifted to the kitchen, thoughts of coffee sustaining him, soothing the live-wire nerves on the surface of his skin, frayed and exposed in his stomach. Food was impossible, though—he was too nauseous and keyed up to even consider anything beyond liquids, though distantly hopeful that the warmth of a steaming cup would ease the sick tangle in his stomach.

His hand clenched protectively around a pale grey mug, body jolting as a little voice broke into his thoughts, "You look weird."

"Do I?" He recovered with unanticipated finesse, flashing a reassuring grin at the glacial eyes peering shrewdly over the back of his sofa. God, they didn't miss a thing, did they? "I'm—well, I'm meeting Kate, my friend, today, remember?" He elaborated, thumbing the porcelain handle absently, "and I'm excited about it. A little—um, maybe a little nervous, too."

"You're nervous?" Her forehead crumpled, the tiny hills of her shoulders surfacing from behind a wall of cushions as she braced her elbows on the rear ledge of the couch.

Turning his back to her probing gaze, he busied himself with rummaging for the burr grinder and a bag of breakfast blend beans, and decided upon honesty. "Absolutely. She's an interesting, fierce, brilliant, and—according to your grandmother, who is _not_ easily impressed—an attractive woman. And I'm—" _something of a lothario, a divorcee, have a kid, haven't exhibited the soundest of judgment,_ "—kind of a wild card. And she still doesn't know who I am. That I write mystery novels, that my name is Richard and not Alex."

"What does 'wild card' mean?"

Huffing a laugh, he depressed a button and quirked an eyebrow good-naturedly as the grinder brayed and crackled and the rich, buttery, cloying scent of coffee permeated the air. "A wild card," he began when the ruckus had faded, "means someone who's unpredictable. You don't know what they might do or might say, and sometimes that's exciting, and sometimes—well, sometimes that means you can't depend on them or trust them the way you might want to."

"I don't think you're a wild card," she remarked solemnly, and his throat tightened at the grave set of her mouth and the sincerity in her translucent eyes.

Well, she wouldn't. He never was with her—always constant, always loving, always _dad_ , and he always would be. Permanence and stability were invaluable and rare, _so_ rare, especially in high-income households headed-up by high-profile parents with high-priority careers, which were almost always, afflictively antecedent to their children. A girl confident in her father's love, a wizened psychologist had shared—the man a wellspring of knowledge, his authority on human nature informing several of his storylines, his character development—is one of the loveliest, strongest, and rarest things in this present age. And that observation had latched onto him, anchoring itself to bone and impressing upon him the necessity and consuming desire to be that for and give that to Alexis.

To help grow her into the loveliest, strongest, rarest version of her remarkable self.

"And that makes me happy, pumpkin," his mouth quirked in a half-smile, "but other people see me differently. And that's okay, so long as _you_ never feel like I—you know, like I let you down."

Copper head tipping to one side, she fell silent and watched his movements intently as he shook the grounds into a filter, poured the carafe of water into the reservoir, and replacing it, watched as a steady, russet strand coursed back into the glass kettle. "But regardless of what she thinks of me," he conceded thoughtfully, turning to look at Alexis again, bracing his hands against the cool lip of the countertop, "I'm gonna show up today, meet this incredible, interesting, _strong_ woman, and allow everything to naturally—" he held his hands out, fingers splayed, and shrugged deeply, "unfold."

After a beat, she beamed at him, sunshine and savvy both, and vaulted across a hurdle of extravagant throw pillows, making her way to the dim recesses of his bedroom. "Then we need to get you ready, 'cause you only get one chance to make a first impression, you know, and right now you look kind of like the those weird guys that feed pigeons in the park all day and if she thinks that when she sees you, good luck getting her to stay for a piece of pie."

* * *

And help him, she had.

With intent alacrity and a shrewdness beyond her years, owing—no doubt—to her grandmother's seasoned experience with wardrobe and costumery and her mother's obsession with all things in vogue, she'd helped him select a button down and crisp, black jeans. "It makes your eyes look sparkly," she'd reassured him pertly, imperiously gesticulating toward the powder blue shirt when he'd questioned her selection, "and your arms look stronger." Which for her—and for him, too, if he allowed himself to scrutinize his decision—was the most influential determinant in the matter.

And now, obstinate hand of hair threatening to spill over his forehead, jaw clean-shaven and clothing cleanly, meticulously pressed—nervous sweat collecting beneath his arms, over his lumbar spine, jeopardizing the uninterrupted lines and planes of his clothing—he stood on the street corner opposite Remy's, trying to breathe past _everything_ unnamed and looming and thrilling. Assuming promises kept and schedules maintained, she was nestled on a pew of clinging red vinyl, waiting for him.

The thought osmosed the moisture from his mouth and spurred his pulse, heart galloping quick as a foam-flecked horse.

 _Jesus Christ, pull yourself together,_ he grimaced at his sophomoric response—a lovesick kid, all prepubescent yodeling and involuntary blushes and mooning eyes—before swallowing, disregarding the rasp of dry tissue against dry tissue, and releasing a long breath. Summoning the vestiges of a courage he'd believed pigeon-holed somewhere in the loft, his feet moved of their own accord, propelling him over the white dashes of the crosswalk and past the diner's threshold, ducking his head gratefully, absently at the owner of the hands that held the door for him.

It only took a moment, his avid gaze sweeping, hunting for her, and oh, _oh_ , there she was.

Only her back was visible to him, and only a slight, finely curving portion over the bench seat, but he drank it in, greedy for substance, for physicality and the fine points of her being. The light was glancing off of her glossy curls, illuminating shades of copper and chestnut and cocoa. Her head listed to one side, and from his vantage point, the soft curve of her profile was partially visible, the slope of her cheek resting in the palm of her hand as she gazed out the window—a black crescent sweep of lashes, the strong, narrow lines of her nose, the feathered taper of one dark brow. Beautiful linear symmetry, delicate and dynamic. Beside her, a precariously full mug of coffee—black, he noted—gave off steam, silvery tendrils soaking up the buttery sun as they streamed skyward.

And as he stared at the barest edge of this lovely creature, somehow foreign and familiar all at once, his case of nerves grew, dimensions expanding to something vast and a little terrifying. It swamped him, seized his senses, and he wiped clammy palms against his jeans in favor of other, less appropriate outlets—like trembling or hyperventilating or simply leaving. His first time fumbling in the backseat of a Sentra, all enthusiasm and shaking hands; the morning of his wedding to Meredith, uncertainty and tequila a churning maelstrom in his gut; the night Alexis was born, gingerly supporting her delicate body, all bubblegum skin and blown-glass bones; signing away his life and beloved novels to Black Pawn—this moment somehow superseded them all in terms of sheer adrenaline and knife's-edge anticipation. _This_ moment, both feet planted on the sticky checkerboard tile of Remy's, heart knocking furiously against his ribs, woman of his dreams still sight unseen, he had the bewildering suspicion that these few, quiet moments were a precipice. A tipping point. And that with their introduction, with those first faltering words, everything would fall exquisitely, astonishingly, irrevocably into place. Or maybe he was a delusional idealist, a writer with the gooey heart of a romantic. Which was the likelier scenario, truth be told.

Whatever he was, whatever he would _be_ following this impending conversation, he was ready. So he took a steadying breath through his nose, let the oxygen and clarity flood his brain, and then dove. Plunged.

"Kate?"

The lustrous head swiveled, and her eyes—the first devastating feature he processed— hit him like the knuckling jab of a sucker punch. Dark and unfathomable, a little damaged, glittering in the mingling light from the overheads and the windows, and utterly, hauntingly familiar.

Oh, god.

She was scrutinizing him with near comical bafflement, and horrified, he fought to stifle a poorly timed laugh of shock—at her expression, at the way this moment was transpiring, at their slack-jawed deadlock. Because it was _her._

Of course.

It _had_ to be her. Red dress, soggy trench. Runway model or underfed waif—he'd discerned it even then, subconsciously. Felt it in his bones, in the marrow of his intuition. And yeah, _there_ it was, that sensation unknown and yet, somehow, awaited—jagged pieces shifting, settling, fitting. If he had to put a name to it, _rightness_.

"Richard Castle." It wasn't a question so much as a searching statement, confusion and question and well-concealed shock.

And now, an uncontrolled _Geronimo_.

Tipping himself nose down, plummeting earthward, controls jammed and heart knocking behind his molars and hopeful for all the right conditions to conspire and allow for recovery, allow him to pull up, up, _up_ and not raze himself, not dismantle this finally real thing, he spoke. "Less commonly known as Richard Alexander Rodgers."

The telling was quick, bandaid gone now, his breath suspended. And he watched, waited as that charged beat of incomprehension suddenly gave way to understanding. As awareness and disbelief tightened her features, cinched up her shoulders, elicited an involuntary gasp.

"You're—"

"Alex," he finished for her, level expression betraying none of the panic seeping through him at the bloom of anger on her lovely face, "yeah."

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _Hello, friends._

 _If you're looking for the alternative_ — _longer, darker, more depressing_ — _version of Chapter 14, I ended up consolidating per the suggestion of my real world editor, whose advice is my bellwether for more than literary direction. Some of you liked the previous version, some didn't, and I respect both positions as well as everything in between. However, after some reflection I felt like this revision flowed more smoothly and that a lot of the material contained in the initial update was extraneous. Hence, its replacement. I do have the original chapter saved, however, and if for any reason you'd like to read over it, feel free to contact me. I'd be happy to forward a copy._

 _Which is why, all that being said, it took me longer than projected to post the update! It's finally,_ finally here, _though_ — _my apologies for it taking infinitely longer than anticipated and I sincerely hope it lives up to your expectations!_

 _I'm interested to hear your thoughts_ — _on the reworked chapter and on the long overdue first look and initial words._

 _Thanks, as always, for reading and supporting this little story! I love sharing in the journey with you all._

 _-Feministly_


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